


Little Pieces

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, BAMF Jensen, Bottom Jared, Desperation, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Drama, Horny Teenagers, Hospitalization, Hurt Jared, Hurt Jensen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Police Brutality, Religious Conflict, Self-Harm, Small Towns, Solitary Confinement, Song Lyrics, Teen Angst, Teen Jared, Teen Jensen, Teen Pregnancy, Teen Romance, Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Threats of Violence, Top Jensen, Topping from the Bottom, Underage Sex, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 55,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen the Bad Influence is better known as the town hellraiser. He stays out late, skips class, and takes bets on chess games after school. His partner in crime happens to be Jared, raised in a strict Catholic-Protestant household, and reigning chess champion. Together, they've skimmed five hundred dollars from their classmates with no end in sight. </p><p>If they can survive high school, conquering the rest of the world must be a piece of cake. </p><p>It just happens that the world has something else in store for them--something no one planned for in a million years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



 

“I wanna get a Jarrito,” Jensen declares, walking up to Jared’s locker. “Maybe even two. And definitely some fried yucca. Hey, do you think if I ask them, they’ll let me work there over the summer?”

A nose scrunch occurs, followed closely by a dismissive flashing of dimples.

“I don’t know.”

Three word responses do not happen from any Padalecki. Ever. If Jared’s mother had to recite a grocery list, she’d add on her personal opinions about why she buys French’s fried onions instead of the store brand for her green bean casserole and other assorted casseroles that she freezes because she’s got three kids to feed plus the hubby, and Lord knows she hasn’t got the time to make anything the night of.

Jensen knows Jared’s mother fairly well. He can predict her response to pretty much anything. She hails from generations of Irish Catholics, making her intent on preserving those traditions down to keeping her first name a secret from Jensen because proper young men do not call their elders by them. To him, she must always be Mrs. Padalecki.

Mr. Padalecki isn’t very different; his line of Protestant ancestors goes back as far as his wife’s lineage. Since Jensen met these two adults, he’s always pictured their first meeting as being similar to a scene from his history book. Mr. Padalecki probably asked Mrs. Padalecki’s father for permission first, then, on their first date, they likely went to a quilting bee where a chaperone sat between them while they made eyes at each other.

Every Padalecki family member has at least four or five opinions that need to be expressed out loud at all times, even when they aren’t immediately relevant to the conversation at hand. Jared has been intensely focused on chess for the past few months. Jensen, by proxy, has learned everything about chess, whether he liked it or not. Most often, it was not.

Though, it was Jensen who had the brilliant idea of pitting chess playing students against each other afterschool in the far east corner of the parking lot and taking bets.

His boyfriend remains the undefeated champ.

It’s the dimples. They lure people in and convince them they’re up against a greenhorn. It doesn’t hurt that Jared amps that façade up by letting Jensen initiate games and then commenting softly, “Chess? Well, I’ve only played once or twice with my grandfather. I might be a little rusty.”

Maybe Mrs. Padalecki is right—Jensen’s probably not the best influence on her youngest son. But they’ve made five hundred bucks off of spoiled, cocky classmates who deserved what they got. Sophomores shouldn’t be able to fleece seniors so thoroughly, but they do and Jensen has no regrets.

“You wanna come over after we get food?” Jensen takes Jared’s backpack and stuffs his cluster of folders into it. He slings it over his shoulders to carry for Jared, since he looks a little pale. Jensen could buy his own backpack but he can’t be bothered.

Backpacks are for people who care about school.

His report card from last semester happens to be at the bottom of Jared’s backpack still, but Jensen’s parents have been too busy flying around the world filming nature documentaries to bother asking for it. He got straight A’s last term just to fuck with everyone.

Shrugging, Jared mumbles, “I guess.”

Jensen bestowed his boyfriend with the opportunity to nag at him about cleaning his room or taking Socks out for a walk. As far as Jensen is concerned, the poodle can fend for himself.

Jared also never misses the chance to chide Jensen calling the dog Socks when his actual name is Sparkles. Well, too bad; that’s what happens when every sock in the house goes missing and is later found in the backyard, buried in mud.

“We can take Socks for a walk.” Come on, Jensen pleads silently. He lays out obvious conversation starters in hopes Jared picks one up. “You can probably run around with him like crazy on Mrs. Garcia’s lawn.”

Finally, Jared issues a response.

“Jen, I don’t feel so good.”

“What? Like how? Like… gonna throw up right now don’t feel so good? Or some asshole gave you shit earlier and you haven’t told me about it until now don’t feel so good?” Instinctively, Jensen’s fists clench. According to his guidance counselor, that instinct is part of Jensen’s… issue. He gets too attached to people who are easily influenced by his actions. And by people, his counselor specifically means Jared.

So what if Jensen is a punch first, ask questions later kind of person? That’s how the real world works.

He knows that from the way his dad argues with producers.

“I threw up during lunch,” Jared admits, a tint of green to his features. “I kinda wanna go home and sleep.”

“You had pepperoni pizza, didn’t you?”

“…maybe.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating that shit?”

“Shut up.” Jared’s tone disapproves, but he flashed a smile.

“Why?” Jensen holds out his arms as they walk down the hallway towards the main entrance. “The bell has rung, my nauseous friend, they can’t do shit to me after hours.”

“That is not true, Mr. Ackles,” Dave snaps, popping his head out of a science classroom. “Regardless of your personal opinions on the matter, vulgarities are not allowed on campus _any_ time of day.”

Grinning, Jensen gifts Dave with a thumbs up. “Stunning performance,” he crows. “Really, rousing, stirring, emotionally fulfilling work. It almost sounds like you care about teaching here.”

“Thanks,” Dave cackles. “But really. I could send both of you to detention.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Typical for Jared to throw Jensen under the bus. Just because Jensen might get them sent to detention a few or five times in a semester does not mean he deserves such harsh treatment.

Dave likes to think he teaches Chemistry. In reality, he conducts Hunger Game scenarios six hours a day, forcing students to compete for his favor. Of all the adults to put up with throughout the day, Dave isn’t entirely bad. He happened to find out about the chess ring and hasn’t ratted them out… yet.

“Aw, you know you don’t wanna do that,” Jensen shoots back, already trotting past Dave.

Leaning against the doorframe, Dave sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh? What makes you so confident?”

“Because you’ve got bigger fish to fry, Davey Crockett.”

“Jensen.” Dave’s voice transforms into Actual Teacher Mode in three microseconds. “Spill.”

Part of being an urchin of the school means being privy to certain information. And in order to make friends, vanquish enemies, and ensure survival, Jensen knows exactly how to play people, especially high schoolers. He’s been to premieres with his parents, seen movie stars passed out in the back of limousines, and witnessed a variety of seemingly straight-laced people engage in the most perverted activities when they thought no one was looking.

High school seniors make themselves easy game. It’s what they get for acting so god damned superior.

Jensen whistles and politely coughs, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Oh, nothing, nothing at all. I mean, it’s _something_ , but definitely nothing I, nor my companion here would be part of.”

“Definitely not,” Jared grumbles.

“Exactly,” Jensen continues. “We would never associate with a crowd of seniors testing the versatility of condoms by filling them with chocolate and vanilla pudding, then hurling them at cars in the parking lot.”

Dave moves so fast, there could be a dust outline of his form against the door.

“Are they really?”

“Are they really what?”

“Are seniors really doing that?”

“Well, yeah,” Jensen huffs with a smile. “But my memory’s fuzzy. Is it the parking lot or behind the school?” He shrugs. “They’ll figure it out for themselves.”

Jared excels at moving pieces on a board.

Jensen does a good job moving people in real life.


	2. Chapter 2

“You look like shit, Jay.”

“Thank you, Jensen, you’re so kind.”

“Hey, I tell the truth.”

“Tell it a little less, please.”

“You know what you need?”

“I don’t wanna know.”

“A good hour with me in my bed.”

“Hmm. You mean a good five minutes.”

Jensen’s eyes go wide before he bursts into laughter. “Oh my fuck, did you just…? Holy shit, I’m rubbing off on you! And I mean that in the _best_ possible way.”

Despite his initial frown, Jared smirks and leans into the arm Jensen has wrapped around his shoulders as they wait at the bus stop. “Just,” Jared sighs, closing his eyes, “stop talking for two minutes.”

“What if I have important things to say?”

“Shh.”

“Like…” Jensen kisses Jared’s temple. “My dick misses your ass.”

Jared smells good. Like strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap.

Fused together in the marigold light of yet another early morning for school, Jared repositions himself, tucking his head under Jensen’s chin. His cheek rests against Jensen’s chest, arms wrapped around Jensen’s waist. This is better. Ten thousand times better. Their surly ass bus driver will probably yell at them again for public displays of affection, and Jensen will probably have the millionth argument that the rule only applies on school property and the sidewalk on Jensen’s block does not constitute as such… but. That’s okay.

Everything is okay as long as Jared finds his place against or near Jensen.

Bless freshman year math class.

“You still don’t feel so good?” With care, Jensen rubs Jared’s back.

Quietly, Jared murmurs, “Nuh uh.”

“Your mom?”

Tension usually runs high in the Padalecki house. Jared’s older sister is running for some board for the city and only drops by to rant to her family about how perfect they all need to be for her to have a chance against the incumbent. Any failure on their part to preserve that image will, she assures them, be the untimely death of her bright political career.

At the same time, Jared’s older brother has decided to drop out of college and tour Europe with a girl he met three weeks ago. Jared has been sneaking over to Jensen’s house to watch Nosferatu in the dark and make out on his bed a hundred times longer than that and no one has given _them_ permission to run off together to Europe.

Then again, they haven’t exactly tried. Jensen mulls the option over in the back of his mind.

“Probably,” Jared admits and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m gonna hurl, Jen.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“No.”

“You putz,” Jensen quips. He leads Jared over to the rose bushes lining some neighbor’s lawn and positions Jared. Hunched over, Jared begins to cry like a drunk college student after a bender. Jensen takes his place as Best Boyfriend Ever and holds Jared’s hair away from his face, and rubs his back, murmuring reassurances that he’ll feel ten times better after this is over.

Whatever stomach flu Jared managed to catch from the student body forces him to hack and puke well past the arrival of the school bus. Jensen ducks behind the bush, standing only when the driver gives up and continues their route. After another couple of minutes, Jensen calls this whole thing quits and all but carries Jared to his house. With his parents gone so often, Jensen’s house is often their haven whenever situations that require privacy arise.

“Puke,” Jared blurts out, clinging to Jensen’s jacket. They made it to Jensen’s mailbox.

“So puke,” Jensen answers. He maintains a firm hold on Jared as the mailman chooses the best moment to drive up and gingerly hand Jensen the mail. “Drive on,” Jensen says, waving his handful of mail, “nothing to see here.”

By the time they reach Jensen’s bathroom, Jared stops puking but continues dry heaving. It sounds painful. Jensen kicks into a side of himself he’s only ever shown Jared—and Socks. But only once with Socks. That was when Socks got caught under a sofa during a thunderstorm and Jensen was the only one home. He held onto the seven pound ball of snow all night, and didn’t once embarrass Socks by mentioning that he peed all over Jensen’s lap twice.

He leaves Jared for a total of five minutes. One minute to dart down the stairs and fill up the electric kettle in the kitchen. Another to pop two slices of bread into the toaster. Another to refill Socks’ water dish even though Socks hasn’t done anything for him lately. Another to make a mug of peppermint tea, toss the toast onto a plate, put it all on a tray, and set everything down on his bed.

Back in the bathroom, Jensen rejoins Jared, kneeling on the floor beside the toilet.

“Hey,” Jensen whispers, hand on the small of Jared’s back. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”

Jared’s fierce Catholic upbringing blazes forth when he weakly whimpers, “School.”

“No way, Jay. Your face is on my toilet seat. You really wanna go to school after this?”

Nose scrunch. “Ugh.”

“That’s right.”

“Carry me.”

“Only if your face doesn’t touch my face.”

“I’m sick,” Jared whines, wrenching himself from the arms of the toilet. “Be nice to me.”

“Sorry, sorry, should I lick your face?”

“Euw.”

“Kiss you? With tongue?”

“Gross!”

“I know, kissing me is pretty gross.”

“That’s…” Jared gets to his feet due to Jensen mostly pulling him up. “…not what I meant.”

“Things that are almost as disgusting as kissing me, but not quite,” Jensen murmurs, supporting a little more than half of Jared’s body weight against his in the journey to the sink. “I’ll go first: subway rails.”

After a cool splash of water to his face, Jared starts to relax. He manages to add keyboards at the library to the list once Jensen hands him his toothbrush. By the time they barrel over to Jensen’s room, five more items have been thoughtfully added to the list. Jared sheds his carefully pressed school clothes and shimmies into Jensen’s Marilyn Manson shirt. Not only does Jared engage in premarital sex with Jensen the Bad Influence, he also wears shirts with lyrics like, “I am the god of fuck,” on them.

“Drink.” Jensen tips the mug against Jared’s lips, his own anxiety waning as Jared listens. Within two minutes, the tea disappears and Jared takes three hearty bites out of the toast.

Tiny claws scratch on the hardwood floors of Jensen’s room.

“No one called for your services,” Jensen sniffs to the imposition. “Go back to licking your butt.”

“Don’t be so mean to him.”

“You’re so quick to defend someone who spends all day licking their asshole.”

“I have to be, I’m dating you.”

“You wound me, Jay. Right here.”

“Don’t point at your dick, it’s not polite.” Jared reaches over the edge of the bed and picks up Socks, who yips in pleasure. Socks never gets to sleep on or near Jensen’s bed. He quickly makes himself at home, plopping down on Jared’s stomach, tail wagging. Jensen sticks his tongue out at the ball of fluff. Spoiled brat.

“Excuse me, did the dog haul your puking ass from the curb to the comfort of my own bed?”

“Attack Jensen, Socks. Go on.” Yawning, Jared places one hand on Socks’ head, and the other on Jensen’s knee. “Get in bed with me, Jen.”

Jensen rolls his eyes and stands up. “No way. You just told my own dog to kill me.”

“Does he ever stop talking?” Socks sneezes. “I didn’t think so.”

Mid-undressing, Jensen shoots a text to his connection in the main office at school. He needs a small favor. As he climbs into bed, his phone flashes a confirmation. Done and done. They’ve been excused from school due to illness. Jensen shows the text to Jared, and then places his phone on his nightstand, next to his framed picture of Jared hanging upside down from a set of monkey bars. In the black and white picture, Jared laughs, his shirt exposing his belly button, and hair wildly draping down towards a sea of woodchips.

Moments after Jensen took that picture, he climbed onto the monkey bars next to Jared and tried to sneak a kiss that way. He fell off, kicked Jared in the face, and cut his own bottom lip open from the impact.

“If you puke, puke on Socks,” Jensen mumbles into Jared’s hair.

Taking a deep breath, Jared nods. He deposits Socks closer to the edge of the bed, then turns onto his side so that he lays chest to chest with Jensen. Strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap linger, despite this morning’s activities. Something else dances there, and it takes Jensen a minute to identify it.

“You smell like me.”

Jared’s already asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks later, Jensen skips fourth period gym.

He gets his exercise darting hall monitors, teachers that wander the hallways like Pacman monsters, and nosey students who would squeal on the drop of a hat. Narrowly, he avoids the Principal, ducking into a classroom with a teacher who doesn’t yet know who he is. He bows to the class of what looks like freshman English and exits a minute later, racing towards the one fire exit he knows doesn’t work. The janitor can be plied for information, but his tidbits don’t come free and experience does. Jensen knows better than to leave fingerprints; he kicks the door open and bolts.

Free at last!

His jacket billows with the rush of wind from his steady, rapid strides.

Downtown doesn’t contain anything that worthy of ditching, but Jensen has an idea and he must follow through. Besides, it wasn’t his decision for his destination to close at three o’clock every day. Either he conducts a jailbreak or he misses out on the opportunity to make Jared smile.

Running two miles past a myriad of houses and homes converted into day spas or bed and breakfast joints, Jensen slows down at the intersection of Joy and Luck. He didn’t have any say when the town decided to name its streets, either.

He catches his breath by transitioning to a quick walk. Some of the adults out and about today know who he is and roll their eyes. There’s that Ackles kid again. Up to no good. Probably hell bent on cow tipping. Jensen has never tipped a cow before, but he would love to try if offered; it’s probably the evilest thing most people in town can imagine him doing. Why tip over a defenseless cow when he could encourage a group of teenagers that every silver car downtown needs a good egging?

Most of the adults are too wrapped up in their own shit to pay any attention to Jensen and that’s the way he likes it. Stay at home moms busily wrestle their toddlers out of stores while elderly people argue about the price of gas or milk and in their day they had to walk fifteen miles, barefoot in the snow, to buy a pair of socks.

Halfway through fourth period, Jensen glides into Fanny’s Flower Farm.

“Fanny,” he announces, ignoring everyone else in the shop, “can you construct a penis bouquet?”

Fanny glares at Jensen over her emerald eyeglasses. She has survived more wars than anyone in town, and somehow, she has survived Jensen. So far.

“I don’t have flowers that small,” she snaps, cutting off a stem with more force than needed.

Customers mill around, some shocked, some apathetic.

Sidling up to the counter, Jensen slaps down a twenty dollar bill. This is one of a few freshly swiped bills from one of many hiding places his dad thinks he doesn’t know about. It catches Fanny’s attention enough for him to place an order. “Think, ‘I am fucking crazy stupid about you’ combined with, ‘with a love that will echo through the ages.’”

His preferred florist accepts the cash and waves him off. Fifteen minutes seems to be the wait time, which pleases Jensen as he’s in no hurry to get back for fifth period English. He only shares one class with Jared and that’s not until eighth period. Mrs. Padalecki was extremely insistent about keeping their schedules opposite this year, so Jared could concentrate on his studies, since he’s in a million Advanced Placement classes. Truly, her meddling knows no bounds. Jensen’s parents asked him if he was still in school, he replied yeah, unfortunately he was, and they wished him well.

Their families couldn’t be more different. Mrs. Padalecki works as a crossing guard at an elementary school. Being paid to boss people around suits her; she’s worked at the same school for twenty years. The few, select times Jensen has been invited for dinner he noticed that she conducts dinner the same way she presides over traffic. Scary.

Jensen walks around the flower shop and admires new stock out of his price range. He’d enjoy surprising Jared with rare orchids one day, just for the hell of it. But that’s a fifty dollar price tag and a little steep for some amusement. Besides, for fifty dollars he could get many flowers, not just one. And what would Jared do with an orchid?

Flowers of every color and size wave at him as he passes by. They give their approval of skipping class, especially when he picks up a watering can from under one of the tables and helps them out.

Fifteen minutes turns into twenty, and by the start of fifth hour, Fanny hollers for him.

“You should be in class.” Her silver hair, tied back in a bun, shakes as she lectures. “You wanna end up like my oldest son, living in my attic, surfing the world wide web all god damn day?”

“I’m sure that Frankie is very busy being a productive member of society on the internet.”

“The hell he is!” Fanny angrily ties a green bow around the packing paper she used to wrap Jensen’s order. “I know what you boys do on those computers!” Scissors point at Jensen. “Nothing but filth! Porn, porn, porn! You know, in my day, if you wanted to see a set of hooters, you went out and paid someone to do it. You know how you paid that gal? By getting a god damn job!”

“I will definitely get a job so I can pay Jared to let me see his tits,” Jensen assures her, reaching out for his bouquet. “Can I see…”

Poking his hand with the pointy end of the scissors, Fanny snaps, “I am not finished!”

“Okay… backing off…”

“And another thing—is it so much to ask for young men to dress halfway decent? Look at you. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Brush a god damn comb through your hair.”

From telling Jensen he spends all day looking at porn on the internet like her forty year old son, to ordering him to quit looking like a slob, Fanny looks after him in her own way. She slips a card into the bouquet, the words inside it elegantly tipped in India ink. After that, she gives Jensen a receipt and passes her finished work over as if he were holding a baby.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

“I won’t drop it.”

“Not that, _this_.” She points at the card. “That boy’s the jewel of his momma’s eye. Nasty woman. But I’m telling you, don’t fuck it all up.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Be nice.”

“I am nice. Why do people think I’m not nice?”

“Is that back talk?”

“No ma’am.”

“Get out of here before I call the cops.”

“I watered some of the tulips for you.”

“Go!”

“Thank you! Next time I’ll ask for a bigger penis!”


	4. Chapter 4

The flowers are a hit.

In fact, the power of the bouquet fast forwards them from Jared’s locker—where he received it—to Jensen’s bed. Flat on his back, he drinks in the sight before him. His eyes roam over the curve of Jared’s hips straddling his own, the plane of Jared’s middle, the dip of his collarbone, and the rosy pout of his lips. He lands on hazel eyes brimming with enthusiasm and excitement.

Jared makes his chest ache something fierce.

Long, firm fingers press against Jensen’s shoulders. Chestnut hair drapes down as their lips meet. Kisses begin simple, sweet, and appreciative. Not all of their motions are smooth, but Jared brushes past that, rubbing his fingertips over Jensen’s chest, throat, and jaw. Touching is good. More than good. Arched over Jensen, Jared rocks his hips back and forth at a languid pace, drawing out the tempo.

They’ve been here countless times before, in the sapphire view of Jensen’s room.

The bed creaks in response to Jared’s movements. Jensen reaches up, framing his hands over the pert, round curve of Jared’s ass. Longing for skin to skin contact, Jensen presses his mouth rough over Jared’s, squeezing his hands, pushing them closer. Tasting peppermint gum, surrounded by the light scent of Dial soap, denim straining against denim, everything becomes too much and not enough.

Wickedly teasing, Jared straightens, separating their lips and looking down on Jensen like a cat would a mouse. He smirks and dimples make their debut, all of this chased by the most voracious tilt of his hips. Grinding down, merciless with pressure, Jared coaxes hot friction from the rub of their jeans. He slips his hands over Jensen’s on his ass and reciprocates every grope. Cerulean walls provide protection. Every minute that passes, Jared relaxes, eases into Jensen, and rides him with increasing fervor. Their breathing escalates. The headboard thumps steady and demanding. Jensen gasps when Jared takes off his own shirt. His legs buck right after, as Jared’s fingers curl around the zipper of his jeans.

Every muscle in Jensen’s body begs for release of this torture, free to indulge in every immoral act he can conceive of.

Jared makes him wait.

He makes him work for it.

Until they skim the edge of no return, both of them panting and kissing and letting out uninhibited moans. Finally, Jensen peels off Jared’s jeans, flipping them over so they lay side to side. He hooks his right leg over Jared’s left, and grinds their cocks together, the sensation wringing out noises from the back of their throats. Jensen stretches out, legs entwine with Jared’s, and revels in the pleasure of being this close from head to toe.

Another tortuous minute passes as they fumble with zippers, shuck socks off, and burrow underneath the comfortable supply of blankets. Jared laughs when Jensen’s cock slaps against his middle, and Jensen pokes at Jared’s middle in retaliation.

Fighting for control, Jared wins, straddling Jensen once more, this time blushing as he settles his hips back. They shudder at the first sublime sensation—Jensen’s cock presses hard and heavy against Jared’s ass. Jared lifts his hips and arches back, eyes closed, moaning when the tip of Jensen nudges between his legs. Both of them fight an ongoing battle to tease without pushing too far past the edge.

“Stuff,” Jared murmurs, his hands on Jensen’s chest.

Jensen knocks over his lamp, alarm clock, and wallet foraging on his nightstand. Finally, he yanks open the top drawer. Jared is warm all over. Tantalizing patches of pale, flushed skin tease Jensen’s mouth. He must get distracted, because Jared reaches over and grabs the necessary supplies himself.

“Someone’s determined,” Jensen mutters, staring as Jared rips open the condom.

“Mmph… thought about this all day.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

“You mean I could’ve scored without buying you flowers?”

“Probably.”

“Were you thinking about me during Math?”

“Shut up, Jensen.”

“Tell me. Were you hot for me during gym?”

“I’m not putting this on you if you don’t shut up.”

“My right hand can fix that.”

Jared swats Jensen upside the head, but there’s the hint of a smile, so Jensen’s not completely a lost cause. Reaching back, Jared maintains eye contact with Jensen as he rolls the condom over and down Jensen’s cock. He shudders with every twitch Jensen gives, and his own cock bobs between them. Jensen wraps his right hand around it and strokes in time with the delicate motion of Jared’s fingers.

Lube always feels weird when first applied, but it makes Jensen cringe to think of having sex without it. Jared applies a generous amount, both on himself and over Jensen, then wipes his hand on his discarded shirt and takes a deep breath.

It’s been a while. They had rushed, frenzied sex last week, cut short by Jensen’s parents arriving home and ruining their fun. Prior to that, Jared hadn’t completely shaken his nausea from that flu, and Jensen didn’t push. He doesn’t have to tell Jared to breathe out as he lowers his hips; Jared’s thighs tremble, his chest rises, and he tosses his head back at the first decadent breech.

Inch by inch, Jensen fights to keep himself from thrusting up, groaning, pressing indents of his fingers into Jared’s thighs.

“Don’t,” Jared cries out, eyes squeezed shut, “don’t move.”

After a pained exhale, Jensen murmurs, “I won’t, Jay.”

Raw, unyielding pressure clutches Jensen’s cock, kneading every inch of his cock, all the way up to the bloated, sensitive tip. Jared lets out a moan, sweating with the effort of adjusting, fully seated and resting on Jensen’s lap.

Swiveling his hips, searching for an angle, Jared gasps when he finds it.

“Oh, oh, Jen…” He lifts his hips half an inch and works himself down a second later. Rising and falling in cautious, restrained movements, Jared opens himself up to Jensen. He bites down on his bottom lip and opens his eyes, the message clear enough to be wordless.

One pulse deeper, fusing their hips together, and Jensen unleashes chaos.

He pounds into Jared, spreading his thighs and ass, thrusting up with as much force as his hips and thighs allow. Alternating long, deep, punishing strokes with short, rapid pierces, Jensen wrings out shouts and moans from Jared full of lust, longing, and insatiable fever.

With the headboard slamming against the wall, Jared takes charge, stilling Jensen’s hips. He moves on his own, craving nothing but the profound ecstasy of fucking himself over Jensen’s cock. Like a man obsessed, he slams his hips down, twisting and tilting his hips, riding Jensen so hard that the nightstand begins to rattle in time with the headboard.

Every cry from Jared’s sumptuous mouth intensifies, until he’s shouting Jensen’s name and leaning forward. Exhilarating and fervent, Jared tosses his head back. He grabs Jensen’s hand, places it over his cock, and together, they coax out the first spurt of come, striping Jensen’s stomach.

Awash in cutting, ardent pleasure, Jensen opens his mouth and groans out his own orgasm, his cock spasming inside his tight, compressing confines. Buried deep, he arches into Jared. He pulls Jared close and kisses him, rough, sloppy, and messy. Jared’s breath hitches and he falls apart again, capable of a refraction rate Jensen isn’t. He comes again, thick ropes of his orgasm reaching Jensen’s chest.

“Again,” Jared pants, his hands in Jensen’s hair. “Fuck me again.”

“I…”

“Please,” he pleads. “Jen, please…”

Desperate, they switch positions, Jared on all fours, Jensen mounting him from behind. Jensen can feel his cock struggling to stay hard. He’s hard enough to push into Jared again, fucking him without any rhythm or tempo. Nothing but instinct drives him, plus the starving, powerful moans of his name.

Jared seizes for a second, then his entire body seems to vibrate with the force of his orgasm. He spills into Jensen’s hand, then onto the bed, and releases a groan so guttural, Jensen’s eyes roll back to hear it.

No small effort goes into catching their breath.

They become a sticky, sweaty, raspy mess of limbs on top of the unfortunate bed.

The walls around them fade into a shade of cobalt as the sun begins to set outside. Jared’s hair curls wildly over Jensen’s pillow, a few strands tickling his nose as they lay chest to back. For the longest and shortest time, they bump against each other, sighing.

Jensen nudges the back of Jared’s neck with his nose.

“I would’ve gotten you flowers anyway,” he rumbles, voice wrecked.

Smiling, Jared nods. He pats Jensen’s hand on his chest. “I know, Jen.”

Unsurprising to either of them, they fall asleep this way, the bouquet of flowers resting in a vase on Jensen’s desk.


	5. Chapter 5

A week later, Jensen’s dad swings by, on a layover to Los Angeles. He stays for approximately three hours, one of which he spends taking a shower and shredding junk mail, another where he pretends to mow the lawn, and finally, his last hour he spends sitting with Jensen at the DMV.

While Jensen takes the stupid test for his license, he looks up to see his father conversing with Mrs. Padalecki, who just happens to be at the DMV.

Great.

He hands in his test to the grumbling government employee at the front of the room and fidgets as he waits for the results.

“Pass,” the guy grouses and hands Jensen a ticket. “Go over there.”

Over there could mean anywhere in the DMV, because the employee is just that helpful, but thankfully Jensen can read the signs above each different desk. A lady with bright orange fingernails takes his ticket and points to plop his ass in yet another maroon plastic chair. Jensen bakes underneath fluorescent lights, turning every now and then to make sure Mrs. Padalecki hasn’t attempted to douse his dad in holy water.

When it’s his turn to have his soul eaten by the DMV’s digital camera, Jensen doesn’t smile for his picture. He stands at the counter instead of sitting back down to wait for them to laminate the rectangular piece of paper that will allow him to legally drive. He’s been driving illegally since he was twelve, but that was back when his parents rented a home in the country and rural life was more forgiving. His middle school classmates all knew how to drive a truck, tractor, and car. It was only fair that he catch up with them.

His driver’s license is still hot from the laminating machine when he kicks his father in the foot.

“Let’s go,” Jensen insists. Mrs. Padalecki is nowhere to be seen.

Setting down the tattered copy of TIME back on the plastic chair, Jensen’s father sighs and stands up, taking his sweet time.

This town is not quite suburban, not quite country, definitely not city material. It likes to think itself the cultural epicenter of the universe, hosting such prestigious events like The Nutcracker, an annual Geography Bee, and Neil Diamond cover band concerts every first Monday evening of the month. Wholesome seems to be the name of the game and Jensen’s family could never be described as such. He knows the story of his parents’ well thanks to his distant grandparents and bottles of wine that loosened their tongues over various holiday meals. Jensen’s mother was still married to her first husband when she met Jensen’s father. Donna was a PA, Alan was a writer, and it was lust at first sight. She was blond, perky, and vibrant. He was handsome, mysterious, and brooding. It was everything every romance author could hope for.

Torrid love affair, messy divorce, having a child out of wedlock… no wonder they spawned Jensen.

Although the nature documentary business itself isn’t quite that radical, his parents have been funded by big names in Hollywood—celebrities eager to inflate their reputations after scandals or bad reviews. At dinner parties and soirees, Jensen learned how to buy drinks for the adults around him and skim change off the top. That was his allowance. While kids his age were learning how to write in cursive, he was hanging out with PAs and crew members who taught him how to play blackjack.

In the parking lot, Alan tosses Jensen the keys to his white Nissan 370Z.

“Congrats, now don’t get us killed.”

“Great vote of confidence, pops.”

“Yeah, well, that woman sure loves you.”

Jensen jerks open the driver’s side door, wishing he could rip it off like the Hulk. He slides in and pushes the seat back, preferring not to have his spine so rigid while he drives. Donna’s car is a more conservative Mercedes CLA and a stick shift. The Nissan is what Jensen learned how to drive on once he graduated from tractors and busted Ford trucks. He can drive Donna’s car, usually without grinding the gears, but why put in all that effort when the Nissan works just as well.

“What’d she say? Did she have a bottle of holy water with her? Try to get you to say a few Hail Marys? Suggest you invest in a crucifix for our living room?”

“Crucifixes did not come up in our conversation,” Alan sighs, running a hand through his hand. “You sure you’re okay dropping me off at the airport?”

“Dad, would I offer if I wasn’t?”

“I don’t want you having sex in this car, please.”

“How’d we get from the airport to my sexual activities?”

“Jensen, just listen.”

“How long are you two gonna be gone this time?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alan sighs yet again. “I don’t know. I’m meeting your mother in Los Angeles, then we’re heading to Anchorage.”

“Without me.”

“You hated Anchorage.”

“Well, I’d hate it less if I could bring a friend.”

“Exactly,” Alan says, reverting to dad mode, “that’s my point. You’re dating that woman’s son, you need to be careful.”

“Your point about me hating Anchorage was that I’m banging Jared?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“Do you need to see Dr. Howard again?”

“Don’t call him that. Your friend from college who dropped out of school with half a psych degree is not a doctor.”

“You’re so hard on people, Jensen. Just like your mother.”

“Should I quote you on that, pops?”

“No,” he grumbles, reclining his seat. “Please don’t.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine. Tired. We’re both tired.”

“Old age catching up, huh?”

“How many years of therapy you think you’ll need to set you right?”

Jensen grins and switches lanes on the main road out of town. “How much you willing to pay for?”

“Aside from your entrepreneurial spirit, what’s the scoop on this woman? Mrs. Padawhatsit?” Alan stretches out, crossing one leg over another. He seems to trust Jensen’s ability to drive them to the airport without too much injury.

“Mrs. Padalecki.”

“Yeah, that. She told me you’ve been running around raising hell.”

Eyebrows up, Jensen echoes, “Raising hell?”

“Alright, she didn’t put it exactly like that, but she was pretty intense about increasing your supervision and how you’re influencing her son. I guess he’s been moodier lately and she thinks it’s because the two of you are having issues.”

On the expressway, Jensen tests the Nissan’s power. He has full use of both cars while his parents are gone. “He hasn’t been moody with me.”

Alan laughs and shakes his head. “C’mon, Jensen, give your old man some credit. You’re hung up on this boy. You mention him at least three times whenever your mother and I call. I’ve never met him, but I could tell him what his favorite color is, the weird thing he does with his nose whenever you swear, and how he likes to wear your Manson shirt even though Manson scares the hell out of him.”

“It’s not _weird_ ,” Jensen insists. “The nose thing he does is not weird. It’s…” He glares at the Ford Focus in front of them. “…fucking adorable.”

“See?” Alan motions to the road. “Why don’t we cut to the chase—have you slept with this boy?”

“Can you define ‘slept with’?”

“So you have.”

“Yes. Yes, father, I have rocked his world,” Jensen grumbles dryly. “But for your information, we’re not having any issues. We’re fine. But you know what’s not fine?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Jensen. You’re not the boy’s parent, you don’t get to make those decisions. If they want to raise their kid a certain way, they’ve got that right. Just like I have the right to raise a no good hellraising smart ass.”

“Handsome no good hellraising smart ass.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I get my good looks from you, pops.”

“Right, so don’t push it.”

A familiar sight looms into view. Departures suck, but Jensen would never let on about that. He slows to the speed limit. “So what do you want me to do? You really gonna cave to Mrs. Padalecki? I’ll hose myself down with holy water if she wants, but it might burn.”

Phone in hand, Alan checks in for his flight. “Of course not, who do you think I am? Some suburban pushover?” He pats Jensen’s shoulder and ruffles his hair despite threats of death. “Just remember that there are two people in a relationship and you have a lot of freedom your boyfriend doesn’t.”

“So… you’re telling me not to cause trouble for Jared?”

“Get the kid a prize, we’ve got ourselves a winner.”

That’s just about enough parenting to last for another six months or so.


	6. Chapter 6

Two days later, in English, Jensen stares at the copy of _Othello_ laid out on his desk.

Either their teacher has a hangover or they’ve given up their stint at glorified babysitting. Their class has been assigned to write an essay about their favorite Shakespearian character. Copies of the Bard were dumped onto an empty desk upfront, free to pick through. Jensen saw the majority of his classmates snatch up easy picks like _Romeo and Juliet_. Hanging back like a vulture, he went through what remained and snatched up the only copy of _Othello_.

However, no offense to the Bard, but three pages in and Jensen can’t concentrate.

Typical teenage shit cements itself into the forefront of his mind, blocking out homework, studying, and the horrifyingly boring present. Jared hasn’t called or texted since Mrs. Padalecki conveniently cornered Alan at the DMV. Jensen walked over to Jared’s house close to eleven last night and picked up a few pebbles. The light was on in Jared’s room. Throwing pebbles at his window was a system that had proven effective before.

Alan’s warning about getting Jared into trouble chose that moment to kick Jensen in the ass.

He left, tossing the pebbles back onto the ground.

Every morning since, Jared hasn’t been at the bus stop, likely being driven to school and back. They’ve exchanged a few words here and there in eighth period, but Jared rushed out after and Jensen didn’t stop him. It was best not to make whoever was picking him up wait.

Jensen looks around the classroom. Hellraising comes to mind when he spots a fire alarm. But that would be way too easy and involve prints, unless he could formulate a decoy. It could be done with some assistance so he extends his view. A search for a proper partner yields nothing. None of these Shakespeare-reading jerks could provide a decent distraction if their lives depended on it.

Hunched over his desk, Jensen briefly wonders if he really is as evil as Mrs. Padalecki seems to think.

When he’s old enough to rent cars and buy dynamite, what can the world expect from him then?

A knock on the door prompts everyone to look up. Jensen cranes his neck, practically digging his nails into the desk.

Dave pops in and exchanges noncommittal pleasantries with the sad sack at the front of the room. Small talk done, he scans the room and points at Jensen. “A word, Mr. Ackles. Bring your stuff.”

Classmates giggle but Jensen ignores them. Even if the Principal wants to sit Jensen down for a three hour lecture on how to conduct himself at school it’s a better prospect than rotting in a desk. He follows Dave out and halfway down the hallway. Dave’s shoulders seem serious. Maybe Jensen’s being expelled; he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

Outside a set of bathrooms near the main office and front entrance, Dave stops.

He turns around and rolls his eyes at Jensen. “You’re not even afraid, are you?”

“Do your worst,” Jensen murmurs, holding his arms out.

“What would scare you, I wonder?”

Bitterly, Jensen grouses, “Maybe you should get to the point, Dave.”

“I thought so,” Dave replies, a little too smug. “Fine. But I don’t want anyone to know I was involved. Got it?” He leans towards the bathrooms and whistles.

Jared peeks out, his eyes meeting Jensen’s.

“Oh fuck no,” Jensen laughs. “Really, Jay?”

“Shh!” Jared embraces him, crushing their ribs together. “Did you drive here today?”

“Well, yeah, but what…”

“Good.” Turning to Dave, Jared waves. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Dave shrugs and pulls two purple pieces of paper from his back pocket. “Let’s say _Jensen_ owes me one. Here, you’ll need these. Now get out of my sight, you two are disgusting.”

“I wuv you,” Jensen quips to Dave, making a heart with his hands. “You have a soft spot for us after all.”

“Shut up, Jensen. Thank you, Mr. Chang. I really appreciate it.”

“I hope you appreciate it when I’m fired,” he sighs and waves them off. “Go—don’t make me scream for a hall monitor.”

This time it’s their turn to bolt, leaving behind dust outlines of themselves.

They flash their off-campus passes at the two hall monitors guarding the front doors and hop into the Nissan. It couldn’t be more perfect.

 

Teenagers congregate at malls. Some magnet implanted into their brains draws them in. In order to avoid arousing suspicion, Jensen drives forty-five minutes to a mall one town over. Calling the structure a mall is being generous. There are a handful of stores, a claw machine, and a minute-clinic.

But the best part of the sad cluster of buildings doesn’t have anything to do with clothes.

“Slow down there, Speedy,” Jensen warns Jared, watching in awe as Jared packs away a second paper boat of cheese fries. “You know, if you chew, sometimes you can taste your food.”

Cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, Jared glares. He swallows his mouthful and takes a long sip of Jensen’s Coca-Cola Icee. “I’ve… hic… survived on pot roast for the past two days. Everything tastes so good. Are you gonna eat the rest of those nachos?”

Jensen slides them over. “You know, I’m a little turned on.”

“Not now. Eating.”

“Wet blanket,” Jensen mutters. “Never let me have any fun.”

The cheese fries never stood a chance. Jared tosses the empty paper boat into the black trashcan nearby. It joins the first serving of cheese fries Jared tore through, both now nothing but husks. Jared starts on Jensen’s nachos, shoveling food into his mouth, licking cheese off his fingers. Jensen rests his elbows on the cheap table and bops Jared on the nose.

Smiling, he delivers more praise for Jared’s jailbreak. It was a brilliant plan. The day remains theirs.

“Oof,” Jared groans and rubs his stomach. “Ate too much.”

“You ate like you’ve never eaten cheese before.”

“I had a headache before, I thought eating would help.”

“Are you still puking?”

Jared shrugs and collects trash onto their plastic tray. “Sorta. It kinda only happens at night now. My mom thinks it’s hormones.”

“Are hormones the work of Satan?”

Nose scrunch. “That’s not what she thinks, Jen.”

With a snort, Jensen flicks a crumpled up napkin at Jared. No one in this mall pays any attention to them. Jensen likes to think it’s because he looks a little older than he is. Or maybe because Jared acts more mature than ninety percent of students in high school.

“She just…” Jared catches the napkin and holds it in his hands, looking down at it. “She’s concerned about my eternal soul and stuff like that.”

Here they go. Best to get shit out of the way right now. “That why you’ve been MIA this week?”

He could do without the nod in response, but at least it proves he was right about shit. Mrs. Padalecki wants to start cracking down. Problem is, as Jensen fully knows, she’s way too late.

His arms wrapped around himself, Jared asks a question, quiet and almost haunting.

“Jen, do you think my soul’s going to hell?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my heart. oh my heart. ;-;


	7. Chapter 7

The Cuban restaurant in town enjoys the reputation for being not only the best restaurant, but the most out of place. Jensen asked Ilan what the hell drove him to open up a Cuban shop in the middle of nowhere in a town where nothing ever happens. That was the point, Ilan had said. He needed a period in his life where he was removed from everything, where he didn’t have to worry about stuff constantly going on.

Ilan built the place with the help of his brother-in-law, a big city contractor and architect.

Three years ago, the restaurant opened and served its first batch of fried yucca.

One of the best dishes on the menu involves white rice, fried potatoes, steak, onions, and tomatoes. Jensen could eat that every day for the rest of his life. Or, if he’s not in a steak mood, he can devour carton after carton of a side dish called congris—white rice cooked with black beans. And when he’s really in the mood for something on the go, Ilan prepares him a Sandwich Cubano. Wrapped in foil, this is a concoction made of two kinds of pork, cheese, pickles, mustard, and crusty bread warmed on a press.

To wash everything down, Ilan keeps a cooler stocked with Jarritos, a liquid rainbow held in clinking, long-neck bottles. There’s rice water, coffee, and juice available as well, but nothing tops a Jarrito.

Pineapple holds the title as best flavor ever.

“Two Jarritos,” Ilan reads off of Jensen’s ticket. “One Sandwich Cubano extra cheese and pickles, two sides of fried yucca, one side of black beans and rice, and four alfajores. Anything else?”

Ilan decorated the restaurant in hues of shortbread and arctic blue. Pictures of his town in Cuba decorate the walls. Six tables with four chairs to each fit in the front, with a bay window to sit at for anyone who wants to wait. Jared plopped himself down onto the cushioned bench there, content to look out the window while waiting for Jensen to order.

Back in town after school let out and it was safe to walk around, Ilan’s has been their first stop.

“What can you offer me in a cheese sort of option?” Jensen asks, digging into his right pocket. “My friend over there has a craving for cheese.”

At the first mention of cheese, Ilia started writing on the receipt. “Two cheese and bean pupusas. Anything else?”

“Can you make it three?”

“Three it is. You want this to go?”

“Yeah, please.”

Jensen pays and takes two pineapple Jarritos from the cooler. He hands one to Jared, who accepts it and makes room for Jensen on the bench. Thigh to thigh, they sit in easy silence. Jared sighs and rests his hand over Jensen’s knee, tracing circles. They rest like this for fifteen minutes. Three people saunter into the restaurant, one of them a classmate of Jared’s, but they speak to no one and no one speaks to them. It’s not exactly rare to see two boys together; plenty of guys date other guys at school.

People just know not to bother Jensen and Jared when they’re together.

Ilan walks over with their order—two plastic bags stuffed with three containers each and one paper bag with the sandwich, napkins, and utensils. Jensen tries to tip Ilan; the older man shakes his head and declines. “Next time,” he says like usual. “Always for next time.”

Exiting the restaurant, Jared and Jensen take their haul over to the park not far from their houses. Typically, children run wild in the park, but ever since some mysterious person set off fifty firecrackers by the tire swing, parents have diverted their children to the park four blocks over. Jensen has no idea how those firecrackers got there, or how they were set off without anyone seeing who did it. He was comfortably at home, doing his homework and extra credit. Well, he _was_ at home that afternoon, but he was blowing Jared before fucking him into the mattress. That first alibi sounded better to the cops.

Climbing onto a picnic table, Jensen rips open the first plastic bag. He sits on the table while Jared politely utilizes the bench.

“Here,” Jensen says, shoving the container with the pupusas into Jared’s hands. “Cheese for the cheesy.”

“You ordered way too much,” Jared complains. One of the pupusas magically jumps into his hand, enroute to his mouth. “I’m still full from lunch.”

“Only you would call a gallon of nacho cheese lunch.”

Cheeks stuffed yet again, Jared grumbles, “I like cheese.”

“You’re past liking it, my friend. I’m gonna have to stage an intervention soon. But help me eat all of this first. Cheese makes me gassy.”

“Gross, Jensen.”

“Farting is a natural bodily function. What you’re doing, inhaling two of those things at once and speaking with your mouth full? None of that is natural.”

Jared blushes and tries to burp without Jensen noticing. “I’m just… really hungry lately.”

“Eating like locusts is what we’re supposed to do, Jay, we’re teenagers.”

“Yeah, but then I just sleep all the time.”

“You gonna make me repeat myself?”

“Did you feed Socks this morning?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Jensen.”

“Jared—poodles have survived for centuries on their own. All that hunk of fur has to do is hunt himself down a squirrel and bam, dinner is served. It’s called self-sufficiency. See, I just bought us food without bothering anyone for it.”

“You paid with your dad’s credit card.”

“Irrelevant. I am a hunter and gather, Jay. I hunted and gathered for you.”

“I suppose,” Jared sighs dramatically, “that this means you want sex now.”

Grinning wide enough to be visible from space, Jensen leans in and kisses Jared’s cheek. “Well, if you’re offering, you bet that fine ass of yours I do.”

“But did you really leave the house without feeding Socks?” Jared bumps their foreheads together. “Because if you did, Jen, I’m never speaking to you again—or letting you touch my ass.”

Around them, the sun begins to bow for the day, giving way to another evening of Jared pleading to his mother to let Jensen hang out in the living room while they do homework. They can’t spend every evening at Jensen’s vacant house, playing video games, having sex, and ordering junk food, though Jensen has tried. Sometimes they have to bite the bullet and willingly sit at the coffee table in Mrs. Padalecki’s living room, doing homework under supervision and sitting at least a foot apart from each other like modern day saints.

“I fed him, you happy?” Jensen relents. “And I even said hi to him this morning.”

Satisfied, Jared smiles, nods, and resumes inhaling most of what Jensen bought from Ilan’s. He offers bites here and there to Jensen, who takes a few of them, but otherwise leaves Jared to happily devour what he wants. When the containers are depleted, Jensen throws everything away. He helps Jared stand up, both of them laughing.

“I ate so much,” Jared groans and swats at Jensen’s ass. “Why’d you let me eat so much?”

“Hey, hey, you touch my ass, you’re making a commitment to it.”

“Ugh.” Nose scrunch. “I’m gonna pop, I can’t have sex with you now.”

“Sure,” Jensen snorts. He leads them over to a patch of grass near an oak tree, slightly away from the park. “Any excuse to keep me from tapping your ass.”

Eased down with help, Jared settles into Jensen’s arms, happy to stretch out chest to back, their legs almost indistinguishable from one another’s. Warm and content, he hums and reaches back, playing with Jensen’s hair, practically melting when Jensen starts to rub his shoulders. After a few minutes, Jensen starts to press kisses to Jared’s cheeks, nibbling his way down to Jared’s neck, nipping lightly, scraping his teeth over a familiar, sensitive spot under Jared’s right ear.

Sunset washes a strawberry hue over the sky, mirroring the scent Jensen inhales deep and heady.

Their hands lock together, clasped over Jared’s chest.

Silence settles in the miniscule space between them. More than once, Jensen squeezes Jared close to him, kissing his cheek, pressing his nose to the nape of Jared’s neck.

He keeps his voice soft, in a tone reserved only for the boy reaching back, returning every kiss, squeeze, and comfortable exhale.

“I don’t know where souls go,” Jensen murmurs into Jared’s hair. “I don’t really wanna know. I want it to be a surprise—a big adventure just waiting to start.”

Grass and oak are all they need.

“But I know, Jay, that wherever your soul goes, mine’ll be following after."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sniff. this chapter made me cry.
> 
> thank you, as always to my wonderful betas, and thank you T for buying me lunch much like the one described in this chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

Ten minutes before dinner at the Padaleckis, Jared grabs Jensen’s hand and leads him over to the creaky bridge. Climbing up, their sneakers storm over the timber bridge and onto the platform of the big yellow slide. The mouth of the slide has a plastic cover to grab onto before zipping down, cornered by wood panels that allow some semblance of privacy.

Jared displays quite the energy for someone who ate half the menu of a Cuban restaurant.

He grabs Jensen by the collar of his black jacket and draws them close. Sneakers meet sneakers. Jensen’s mouth meets Jared’s. Their lips press and smack together, followed by the alluring flicker of tongue against Jensen’s bottom lip. Opening free and easy, Jensen moans as Jared slips in, intent on kissing the hell out of Jensen. Long fingers curl into Jensen’s collar; their hips bump together and Jensen reaches back to squeeze Jared’s ass.

In zero to sixty seconds, taking advantage of adolescent efficiency, they go from making out to practically humping each other on the playground. Jared shoves Jensen down onto his knees and looks down, smirking, his fingers teasing at his belt buckle.

Two can play at that game.

Jensen licks his lips, shining them up, pouting for the full effect.

Then he flashes Jared his best crooked, prizewinning smile.

Knocked flat on his back, Jensen wheezes and laughs, smothered with heated, rough, demanding kisses. Jared kisses sweet one second and filthy the next. He grinds their hips together and leans down. With his legs straddling Jensen’s hips, in one almost fluid movement, he rotates them to lay on their sides.

Chest to chest.

Jared’s hands dart down, skipping past pleasantries, and slip into Jensen’s jeans. He gives Jensen’s ass one, two, three, four, five firmly thorough gropes. After locking their hips, every rapid exhale curls together, mingling, until Jared tilts Jensen’s chin up and kisses him wet and wicked.

What is breathing when kissing is so much better?

Every push forward Jensen gives with his hips, he fights for.

He groans into Jared’s mouth, eyes fluttering, the second Jared’s fingernails scratch and feather up his shoulder blades.

This is not being on time for dinner.

“Fuck me, Jen.”

And that is not good boy Jared speaking.

That is raunchy, bad boy Jared, who wants nothing more than to get off on the feeling of Jensen’s cock pounding into him over and over again.

“Fuck,” Jensen mutters with a shiver, arching into Jared. “Stuff… stuff, Jay.”

“My back pocket,” Jared purrs over Jensen’s mouth.

That is definitely bad boy Jared—prepared and ready with two condoms and a pack of lube in the back pocket of his jeans. Jensen gives his ass a little slap of approval, earning him a barrage of frenzied kisses and breathy whispers of his name.

Jensen’s toes curl inside his sneakers.

He makes use of their surroundings, aware of their limitations. They need to make as little mess as possible. While he’d love to fuck Jared on his back, Jared’s legs wrapped around his waist or tossed over his shoulders, he opts for a better position. Wrenched away from Jared for a moment, Jensen kneels and unzips his jeans. Jared mirrors him, fired up, eager and practically predatory.

After another minute of clumsy, desperate kissing, necking, and groping, Jensen hauls Jared onto his lap, turning them chest to back. He shoves Jared’s jeans down to his knees, then his own. Jared’s round, generous ass bounces as Jensen grinds his cock against it, leaving a wet trail of come over each pert globe.

Fueled by their mutual craving, Jensen rolls the first condom onto Jared, then the second on himself.

They don’t have extra lube, but the condom Jensen uses has some already.

Jared braces himself on the plastic frame above the slide. He rests his thighs and legs over Jensen’s. Heart rates accelerating, aching, piercing yearning floods through them. Jensen spreads Jared’s ass, marveling at the tight, pink muscle that is his to breech. Jared shudders at the first nudge of Jensen’s cock to his hole. The burn that follows the first satisfying push is all glory and passion.

Pushing his hips back, Jared cries out, his entire body thrumming.

Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s chest, burying his face in the crook of Jared’s shoulder.

Within a minute, Jared rests in Jensen’s lap, fully seated, panting and rocking. Clenching, rolling pleasure surges around Jensen. His cock twitches and swells. He slips his cock out halfway, and clings to Jared when Jared tilts his hips. He fucks himself over Jensen’s cock, bucking, plunging, and twisting.

Whatever Jared wants, Jensen gives freely.

Harder. Faster. Deeper.

Eyes shut, Jensen moans into Jared’s shoulder, his hips working overtime. The bloated tip of his cock drives against a bundle of nerves that cause Jared to muffle his screams with his sleeve. Their muscles coiled and breathing ragged, Jared remains ruthless in his rhythm, slamming down into Jensen’s lap, challenging him to keep up.

Finally, Jensen slants their bodies backwards. He spreads Jared’s thighs out a fraction more.

Holding Jared tight, Jensen fucks him through two thunderous orgasms.

Jared gasps. He screams into his sleeve. He tosses his head back and melts in Jensen’s arms. His nails leave scratch marks on the plastic frame in front of them.

The tempo slows for only a minute.

Until it rushes back, punishing and voracious.

Jensen fucks Jared to one last orgasm, his own orgasm starting. The entire length of his cock swells, heavy and thick, and he fills the condom with rope after rope of sticky, hot come.

Ecstasy seizes them and refuses to let go.

Neither of them fights it.

They float, together, like it should always be.

Jensen kisses Jared’s cheek.

Jared sighs his gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut! yay! a shorter chapter, but with more on the way. :)


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you sure you didn’t leave any marks?”

“Jay that is the fourth time you’ve asked in the span of ten minutes. No, you putz, I left no marks.”

“Ugh. Why are we walking?”

“Because you need to act like you didn’t just have eight inches of cock up your ass.”

“Pft. It’s not eight inches.”

“It so is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Because it’s not eight inches.”

“I measured it this morning!”

“Jensen!”

“What? What’s the point of learning math if I can’t apply it to my daily life?”

“Why do I date you?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe it’s for my eight inch cock. Figures you’d be a size queen. The quiet ones always are.”

“Please don’t swear in front of my parents.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“I won’t even tell them about how much I made you come tonight.”

“I… it felt so good.”

“…yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But that might imply…”

“It’s always good, Jen. Trust me. Just… lately… all I do is eat, sleep, puke, and masturbate.”

“You were so desperate for cock you skipped class? Wow, that is a problem.”

“Hey, you have no idea. I was going to hump you in the hallway.”

“Dave would’ve screamed.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? Hello, you’re speaking to a teenage boy. This thing? Constantly up, down, up, down, up, up, up. Oh, c’mon, don’t make that face. You know you’re not exempt from this shit. Sometimes life is just all about eating, sleeping, and fucking. Puking though, that’s a new one.”

“It doesn’t happen all the time.”

“Then quit worrying.”

“What’s it like not to give a shit?”

“Glorious.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look, just because your parents expect you to fit inside this rigid, suffocating box, doesn’t mean you’re not gonna spill over once in a while. Or at least try to peek out of it. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. If you wanna spend a week or six drinking nacho cheese and napping, that’s no one’s business but yours.”

“…”

“What?”

“I’m dating you.”

“Yep. Looks like it.”

“That’s like… setting fire to the box.”

“Hell yes.”

“Hmm. Am I walking okay?”

“Well, I guess. I can still tell you were thoroughly fucked, but you know, I might be biased.”

“Ugh, whatever. You’re sure you didn’t leave any marks?”

“Jared!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forward we go!


	10. Chapter 10

Dinner churns by at an excruciating pace.

Mrs. Padalecki does not greet Jensen with any pretense of warmth beyond a formal, “We only have three steaks.”

Promptly, Jared solves the steak dilemma by cutting his in half and placing it on an extra plate. Jensen attempts to protest only to be shut down. Jared makes _the signal_ —tapping his chin once and glaring at Jensen. Well, the glaring isn’t technically part of _the signal_ , but it’s sort of like a packaged deal at this point in their relationship. Shutting up and sitting down at the table, Jensen decides it’s best not to comment on how he prefers his steaks medium-rare, not well done.

The Padalecki household contains more crosses and candles than any church within a one hundred mile radius. Saints and Jesus stare out at their audience with an intensity rivaled only by the looks Mr. Padalecki casts across the table towards Jensen.

There’s a prayer before dinner, which Jensen doesn’t participate in. He clasps his hands out of civility, but he can’t murmur along with the words even if he wanted to. It’s not for fear of bursting into flames; neither of his parents practice any major religion. Prayers in the Ackles household revolve less about some dude and his son, and more around Donna not finding out that Alan kind of sort of maybe might have taught Jensen how to play blackjack at the age of ten.

Those prayers end in a distinctly different manner than the rumbling, “Amen,” the Padaleckis utter in unison.

Conversation usually dominates Jared’s house, but since a sinner sits amongst them, everyone focuses on eating so they can get this over with. Under the table, Jensen nudges Jared’s foot. Jared frowns but his eyes say something else. Jensen stops nudging, though he keeps his foot pressed against Jared’s.

Every wall in the Padalecki house holds some model of either Christ, the cross, or Christ on the cross. Jensen doesn’t have too much against the dude, but it must get boring watching Mrs. Padalecki serve the same under-seasoned, charred steaks for dinner time and time again. Her mashed potatoes, which resemble something more like wet biscuit dough, provide at least a little entertainment. Tonight’s vegetable of choice lay on a large white platter, sorry stalks of asparagus exhausted from their time in the oven. Ilan would die if he saw this. And maybe give Jared an extra pupusa next time.

Neither adult says anything to each other through dinner. Mr. Padalecki rumbles for Jared to pass the asparagus; Jensen ignores that he has to pass it to Jared to do so.

If this is what Jensen is missing with his parents gone all the time—he’s probably not missing much.

On the few occasions that his parents have been in town together and sat Jensen down for a meal, dinner was either a splurge on a four course meal from somewhere with a Michelin star or Burger King. There’s not much difference between a Whopper and filet mignon, Jensen philosophizes, attempting to wrench his fork out of potato quicksand.

One time, Donna forced Jensen to spend some quality time with her. This was back in the country and Jensen must have been about twelve. She said every teenaged boy needed to be scarred by their mothers at least once.

She took him to a dairy farm five miles up the road, to see the miracle of birth.

Donna ended up puking her breakfast and lunch while Jensen wondered when he could get back to masturbating to erotic novels their housekeeper kept stashed in the defunct dumb waiter.

Dinner with the Padaleckis manages to be more boring and gruesome than waiting for that cow to give birth to its calf. At least then he was able to crack jokes to his mother about her crackpot ideas; if a joke landed on the table, introduced itself, and slapped everyone in the face three times Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki would ask it to pass the asparagus.

Hazel eyes make the torture worth it.

“We’ll wash up,” Jared offers at the end of the eternity that slugged on by.

Mrs. Padalecki barely disguises her fear of losing her good silver. However, her son proves too quick, gathering up plates and practically racing to the kitchen. Jensen trudges after, knocking their hips together at the sink.

“Out of the way,” Jensen sniffs, rolling up imaginary sleeves. “Let me show you how a man washes dishes.”

Swooning, Jared presses one hand to his chest and the other to his chin. “My goodness! Little ol’ me was about to lift that heavy sponge until you came along! My big, strong man!”

Chest puffed out, suds covering his hands, Jensen lets out his after-dinner burp. Before Jared can adequately express his disgust, Jensen clears his throat and rumbles, “Yeah, that’s what big strong men do—we’re burping, macho, hunter gather-er types that wash the fu—heck out of these here dishes! Now stand aside, I’d hate to see a pretty little thing like yourself injured.”

Two things save Jensen from a harsh nose scrunching: not swearing and flexing his muscles as he carefully sets a plate onto the drying rack. Jared’s eyes instantly fixate on his arms. And with a well-timed stretch to grab more plates, Jensen feels his shirt ride up just an inch, exposing a hint of skin and the black band of his boxer briefs. If awards were given for subtlety while staring at Jensen’s ass, Jensen remains content in his knowledge that Jared would be finish last every single time.

By the time the dishes are washed and dried, bad boy Jared makes another appearance, flirty and seductive, even while settling onto the living floor to do their homework at the coffee table.

Only Jared could make the opening of a math textbook sexy.

He purposefully plays on all the things he knows drives Jensen absolutely crazy—licks his lips, smirks, flashes those dimples, plays with the silky, glossy mop of his hair, and runs his fingers from his ear to his exposed throat.

Bad boy Jared doesn’t let up even after Mr. Padalecki settles his hefty frame into one of the leather armchairs ten feet away.

The thrill of his boyfriend gone bad despite their chaperone’s watchful eyes above today’s paper causes Jensen to short fuse. Who the hell cares about math homework when the boy in front of him keeps making suggestive, hypnotic movements with his fingers over the pencil he’s holding? Up, down, up, down—the second Jared’s fingers rub over the eraser, Jensen shivers and chokes on spit.

Newspaper flutters to catch the source of the commotion.

“Breathe, Jensen,” Jared says, all innocence. “Way to choke on your own spit.”

Glaring, Jensen manages not to die. However, and maybe even worse than dying, the urge to banter back something about showing Jared what he should really be choking on instead becomes overwhelming. He shuts his eyes tight for a second, definitely not imagining sucking bad boy Jared off. Nope. His mind fills with the squiggles printed on the math textbook they share. Definitely not the alluring idea of pinning bad boy Jared on the coffee table, yanking his jeans down, and deep throating his cock, choking loud and keeping everything wet, hot, and messy.

One of the perks of bad boy Jared is that he’s rougher than good boy Jared. He would buck into Jensen’s mouth, arching up, squeezing his thighs around Jensen’s head, pulling him in closer so he can fuck Jensen’s throat deeper. He’d make the coffee table creak, twist his fingers into Jensen’s hair, and come hard, forcing Jensen to breathe through his nose and swallow every last scorching drop.

“Jen?”

“What,” Jensen blurts out, two seconds away from breaking the pencil in his hand.

“Can you help me with number six?” Jared bats his eyes. “I think it’s a lot like number nine, but I can’t figure it out.”

For a full ten seconds, Jensen just stares at Jared, open-mouthed.

Hazel eyes flash communicate complete, satisfied, smug knowledge of what Jensen was thinking about a minute ago. Fucker.

Adding to the insult, Jared has conveniently circled the numbers six and nine.

Fine. If this is how Jared wants their evening to go, then two can play at that game. And by playing at that game, Jensen means that he can carry on like nothing at all; bad boy Jared’s charms won’t work on him. Nope. Not at all. In fact, Jensen can actually do both problems, showing Jared step by step which formulas to apply and how to move numbers around.

Jared pouts when Jensen slides his notebook back. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Any time,” Jensen quips. “I got a little lost on six and nine too, but I turned it around.”

Math homework conquered, they move onto a few other subjects, finishing up as quickly as possible. Mr. Padalecki falls asleep in his chair, but their reprieve dies as Mrs. Padalecki takes a seat on the couch directly behind Jared. Every time Jensen’s eyes divert from his homework, he catches a glimpse of Mrs. Padalecki by proxy—a fact so depressing, there aren’t words enough to describe it.

Finally, Jared finishes. He goes through the routine of showing Mrs. Padalecki his agenda and the completed pages. Jensen stuffs his work into his notebook and hands it back to Jared for safekeeping. His homework is more or less done and that’s good enough for him.

Since it might make one of the crucifixes in the house cry, the Padaleckis keep the one television in their house shut inside a hutch. Any channel that hasn’t been pre-approved by an adult is locked, with a setting to record what gets unlocked and when in case anyone tries hacking it. Jensen’s presence in their home tonight prompts Mrs. Padalecki to deny Jared’s request for television time. She offers the use of the family radio instead, also locked to certain stations.

“Radio’s cool,” Jensen says to Jared, shrugging. The absence of television does not strike Jensen through the heart as much as the Padaleckis must think it does. “Dibs on the station though.”

“You picked last time,” Jared huffs. He drags the old-time radio out of the trunk in the corner of the room.

Jensen brushes some of the dust off of it after Jared sets it down on the table. With their homework done, they’re allowed to sit a little closer together _and_ hold hands. Shocking stuff after what they did today.

“And I picked _awesome_.” A few turns and twists of the dials results in nothing but static and choirs. Finally, after a few minutes of determined searching, Jensen lands on a station playing casual jazz.

The house enjoys two songs of soft piano, harmonious coronet, and whispering drums.

Tapping his fingers over Jared’s hand, Jensen gives it a squeeze once the clock strikes eight thirty.

Through the speakers, one red blooded trumpet blares, chased after with a set of upbeat, unashamed drums, cymbals, and fevered, rhythmic clapping. All of it takes a backseat to the confident, grainy voice of Wynonie Harris belting out, “Yes, it’s real gone, hand you my lovin’, you know what I mean! Feels so bad, I built a lovin’ machine. Up to my house, I’ll show you what I mean. Well, I just got wise and built me a lovin’ machine.”

Eight thirty marks a set change for the DJ’s who run this station.

It also heralds a wave of life and excitement into the Padalecki house.

Shaking his shoulders, Jensen holds his arms out in front of him, still sitting on the floor. He shimmies to and fro, mouthing the words. “Well you put a nickel in a slot, you hear some buzzin’, kisses wild and hot, five cents a dozen! Well I got hip to the tip and built me a lovin’ machine.”

Jared joins in, lifting his arms above his head, rocking back and forth. He mouths along, taking the next stanza. “Well you pull the lever on the right.” He claps his hands in time. “Two arms jump out, wrap all around you, make you scream and shout! Drop a nickel in!” The glance he shoots Jensen tells him that if he could, he’d do exactly what Mr. Harris sings.

Without a worry, Jensen continues, bobbing to the sweet sound of the trumpet. “You put a quarter in the slot, things light up, out comes your lovin’ in a Dixie cup! When my machine finishes that ain’t all, out comes a bottle of…”

Mrs. Padalecki murders the radio, twisting the dial from on to off.

Instead of being the least bit remorseful, she informs Jared that it is getting late and guests should respect his weekday bedtime.

“One more song,” Jared pleads, literally on his knees. “Mom, please.”

In an act of wisdom, Jensen stays out of this discussion.

“Jared, it is time for bed.”

“We still have half an hour, mom.”

“I will not repeat myself again, young man.”

Bad boy Jared takes the reigns in a surprising twist. “Mom,” he insists, tone firm. “Please, we’re just listening to the radio. I’ll pick a classical station.”

Tension swarms throughout the living room, affecting everyone. Well, except for Mr. Padalecki, he’s busy snoring. Earthquakes and tornados couldn’t wake the man up, or excellent music. But if Jensen leans in an inch too close to Jared, he’ll wake up and bark at Jared to move over.

Whatever sways Mrs. Padalecki’s answer must be related to some form of temporary insanity. She huffs and waves Jared off, adding that they get ten more minutes and after that—that’s _it_.

Satisfied, Jared searches through stations, ear to one of the speakers. His tongue peeks out as he concentrates on just the right selection. Jensen beats away the urge to make Jared laugh or give him a raspberry on the cheek for being so fucking adorable.

Jared settles for what he announces as Bach, and presses the envelope of his mother’s rules by scooting an inch closer to Jensen. It’s odd how they’ve spent most of the day touching, groping, kissing, and fucking, mostly in public spaces, but in the privacy of a house, they fight for the permission to hold hands. Kissing is totally out of the question. A hug might be appropriate for the end of the night, but that is never a guarantee.

For the moment, Jensen tries to enjoy Jared’s thumb running over his knuckles. The motion soothes some of the rage and frustration built up since dinner.

Towards the end of their ten minutes, Jared pulls Jensen to his feet and they swing their hands.

“Walk me to my room?” Jared asks, softly, this time nothing but innocence in his eyes.

His room waits on this floor, down the hall, second door on the left. It’s still within eyeshot of concerned, prying eyes. Jared usually doesn’t see Jensen to the front door, just to his room to say goodnight. One of his parents leads Jensen to the front whenever he’s visiting, acting like wardens, locking the door behind him once he’s out.

Sometimes, that corner of the park seems like a better place than this.

But Jensen knows it’s not his place to say that.

He simply returns Jared’s smile and nods.

The radio plays on as they linger, making their steps short and slow, taking their time. Halfway down the hall, another song comes on. At first it sounds like nothing in particular, just some boring piano music that might be used in a day spa. Then the notes sound closer and closer together, transforming into something like a march.

Jensen could laugh for days when he realizes what’s playing.

“Let me,” he begs Jared. “Oh please, pretty please, Jay.”

“Jen…”

“It’s a joke,” he whispers. “How can anyone not appreciate the joke?”

“…fine. But don’t drop me.”

“Drop you? I would never!” he declares, linking his arm with Jared’s. The bridal march sees them to Jared’s room, the both of them trying and failing to be discreet.

Just a few seconds and the hallway transforms into a cathedral decked out in white silk bunting. Their jeans and t-shirts become tuxedos. The disapproving stare from Mrs. Padalecki shifts into aisles and aisles full of people cheering, hooting, clapping, and shouting their congratulations. They’re running out of there, hand in hand, towards a bright blue door.

In a series of fluid motions, with only one slight second of stumbling involved, Jensen picks Jared up. Jared’s legs swing, he clings to Jensen, and he squeals in equal parts fear and joy.

“Don’t drop me!”

“I won’t!”

“This is… eek! Ridiculous!”

“You said… I’m… a big, strong man!”

“Yeah, for washing dishes! Jensen, be careful!”

His grip firm on Jared despite the one or two trembles of his forearms, Jensen manages to stagger past Jared’s door. He huffs and puffs in the doorway, trying to figure out how not to throw Jared down like a sack of potatoes.

“Don’t!” Jared shrieks in Jensen’s ear, laughing still. “I’ll do it! Just… move your arm…”

Two minutes pass by as they awkwardly disentangle.

With his feet on the ground once more, Jared punches Jensen in the shoulder, then sighs. “At least you warned me, I guess.”

“And who didn’t drop you?”

“You didn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re redder than a tomato.”

“Well… I just… need to catch my breath is all.”

“Was I too heavy?”

“Nah, my muscles just… you know… maybe I should sit down.”

“Ahem.”

That’s the sound—time to call it quits. Mrs. Padalecki crosses her arms over her chest as she stands in the hallway, two feet from Jared’s doorway. No more extensions. No more time together for tonight. Jensen glances at Jared’s neatly made bed.

He promises it—and by extension, Jared—that one day, their nights won’t end at the doorway.

He receives his hug and the promise of school tomorrow. After Mrs. Padalecki silently boots him out of the house, Jensen marches home, humming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra long chapter for y'all! and some schmoop and smut and disapproving glares lol. comments are love, thank you for reading! :D


	11. Chapter 11

Sitting outside with Socks the next morning, Jensen reads a piece of mail sent from the school addressed to his parents. He doesn’t bother trying to conceal opening it; his parents have long ago stopped caring about details like that. By the time they circled back to wherever they lived at the time and found out Jensen had been given detention, he had already either served the time or talked his way out of it.

Besides, he learned early on that it wasn’t what he was doing that was wrong so much as getting caught for doing it was. Amateurs got caught sneaking into the Principal’s office at night with one cage full of chickens, one bag of seed, and no regrets in the world.

It was his flashlight that gave him away. Stupid flashlight.

Socks chases after his own tail for a few minutes before deciding to bark at a squirrel. He barks with such conviction, his entire body shakes, fur puffing up to create the visage of a small, angry cloud.

To quiet the tiny terror, Jensen crumples up the letter and whistles. Socks bounds over, tail wagging at an absurd rate for such a pipsqueak. Jensen tosses the letter and Socks immediately makes it his next target. Leave it to a poodle to attack a piece of paper with the same ruthless instinct as a wolf. Better it be appreciated that way than what Jensen was originally planning to do to it.

After refilling Socks’ bowl and locking up, Jensen stands on his front porch and contemplates his day.

He _could_ go to school.

But he happened to direct the attention of a certain girl at school to his contact in the main office, so he’s got another favor due. If all goes well between those two, Jensen could be seeing his way to a series of favors in the future. So he would be an idiot not to seize this opportunity.

Jensen darts over to the bus stop.

One lone student waits there, reading a letter.

“About time you show up,” Jared mutters, not bothering to look up.

“Well, if I’m on time, you’ll start expecting that shit.”

“That’s right, how dare I expect you to be responsible.”

With a snort, Jensen growls, “Hey, get off my case. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re planning on skipping.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but finds himself momentarily speechless. “…how did you know?”

Finally looking up, Jared sighs. “I can tell, Jen. And I see that you don’t have your letter. Tell me that you didn’t throw it away.”

Socks can’t squeal. “Not exactly.”

Jared thwacks Jensen on the shoulder with his letter. Hazel eyes blaze. “Jen! What is the purpose of going to school if you’re going to keep doing that?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jensen snaps, swatting Jared away. “I did _not_ walk my ass over here to be lectured.”

“No, because you are so above lecturing.” The person before Jensen is not bad boy Jared or good boy Jared. This must be someone Jensen only sees rarely: cranky Jared. Or, potentially, pissed off Jared. Jensen’s gauge of the situation fails him as Jared continues. “I know what you’re thinking—oh, Jay, what’s the point of school anyway? Why don’t we just skip class and I can fuck you in the backseat of my dad’s fancy car?”

For the first time in his life, sarcastic remarks completely fail Jensen.

He can only stare at Jared.

Sometimes, in the country, Jensen would mess around with boys and girls. He’d wink at them, smile, and pick a few choice poses. Eventually, he’d find himself in barns, beds, trucks, cars, or fields under a canopy of stars. He lost his virginity the day he turned thirteen, to a senior girl in high school. She took care of everything and invited him over to fuck in her room while her parents were out grocery shopping.

And that was it. Half an hour of awkward, clumsy humping and moaning ended with neither one of them speaking to each other again. It happened again and again as his parents moved him from place to place.

No attachments were made. No promises exchanged.

Hell, he didn’t even bother to remember their names.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Jensen quips, his lips forming a fractured, twisted smile. “I’d bet a hundred bucks that you’re probably psychic, Jared. Now that you’ve figured out my dastardly plan, I guess I’ll just have to jack off in the backseat of my dad’s fancy car all by myself. But don’t worry. I know not to get come on the seats.”

Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to say _that_. He was supposed to say something like… some kind of profession of… undying loyalty and what the hell is going on… His response was supposed to make things better, not a hundred times worse.

All of his limbs move without his permission. He turns his back to Jared and walks back towards his house and his yappy little dog.

The sound of the bus just a block away makes no difference to Jensen. His peers are welcome to divvy up his education however they see fit. He definitely doesn’t look over his shoulder to see the outcome of this morning’s craptacular spectacle. There’s no need to confirm that Jared got on the bus and went to school just to get away from everything.

It’s all that fucking letter’s fault.

Jensen never asked anyone to submit his test scores to some shitty national achievement board.

How are his 99th percentile scores helping him now? Can they turn back time like Cher and cram Jensen’s mouth with caulk so he doesn’t fuck up his first and probably only relationship in his life? What’s after this, really? Probably something like the stuff in sad sitcoms that get cancelled after two seasons because the main character is just that pathetic. He’ll probably drop out of high school, work odd jobs, and continue sleeping through the small towns he flits through. He might even try to write a play or work as a car salesman—two of the most depressing thoughts ever to course through Jensen’s brain.

Oh, this is too precious. Jensen kicks a rock on the sidewalk, sending it flying onto the street.

Restless, he decides to change clothes before heading out to commit some stress-relieving hellraising. He has his hand on the garage key pad, stabbing in the code, when he hears a shout.

“Jensen!”

Creaking and groaning, the garage opens its cavernous mouth.

Hesitating, Jensen turns just enough to see the source of the shout. Jared runs down the sidewalk, all long limbs and hair billowing behind him. He pitches his backpack on Jensen’s lawn because it slows his down.

“I’m sorry, Jen,” Jared blurts, three paces away, charging with fevered determination. “Holy crap, Jen, I’m so sorry.”

The collision nearly knocks Jensen off his feet.

Which is exactly how he felt the first time he saw Jared in freshman year math class.

One kiss triggers a hundred more.

 

If it’s one thing teenagers can be relied upon, it’s eating through an entire fridge within one viewing of The Price is Right.

When presented with the options of staying at Jensen’s or taking the Nissan out for a drive, Jared selects staying in and glomming himself onto Jensen as they curl up on the long couch in the living room. They argue over bets and the traditional battle of Drew Carey versus Bob Barker. At the end of the program, Jared walks away with the grand prize: a slap to his ass and two noogies.

Jeopardy and The Golden Girl reruns mark the rest of their leisure time on the couch. Jared takes mental notes from Rose so he can keep up his act at afterschool chess matches. No one has a better Rose Nyland impression than Jared. He attempts a Dorothy, but lacks the sarcastic bite. Unsurprisingly, Jensen can fill in as the rest of the cast. His Dorothy remains unchallenged, his Blanche spot on, and his Sophia could win an Emmy.

“Have I given you,” Jensen snaps out, chest to back with Jared and hooking his leg over Jared’s hips, “any indication at all that I care?”

Laughing, Jared presses back, carding his fingers through Jensen’s hair. He relaxes into Jensen’s attempts to smother him with affection. “Maybe once or twice,” he murmurs, pressing good boy Jared kisses to Jensen’s right hand. Jensen bops his nose, always a favorite action.

Before another opportunity arises for Jensen to crow along to “Thank You for Being a Friend,” Jared sits up and plants a kiss to his mouth.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Jensen’s hands settle comfortably over Jared’s hips. His eyes meet hazel ones, treated to the kind flash of dimples on the way.

“Can I apologize again?”

“Nope. We’re done with that.”

“You sure?”

“Jay. It’s been two hours and you’re still blaming yourself? Blame yourself once and move on.”

“Jensen!”

Cackling, Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s waist and squeezes. His words come out muffled into Jared’s chest, but he means every one of them. “Stop apologizing, you putz.”

A frown prevents Jensen’s words from sinking in. “I don’t want to nag at you, Jen, I just think you should let your parents know about things at school. Well… things like that. They’d be really proud of you…” Jared bites his bottom lip, looking away for a moment, then bracing his hands over Jensen’s shoulders. “Just like I am.”

Eating is one thing. Discussing emotions? Totally different planet.

Jensen is certainly capable of feeling, but no one needs to _know_ that shit.

After thirty seconds of awkward silence and avoiding each other’s eyes, Jared speaks up. “Anyway, I was going to ask you… can I borrow some of your pajamas?”

“You wanna wear my jammies?”

“No, I’d like to borrow your pajamas.”

“So you wanna wear the clothes I masturbate in.”

“You don’t masturbate in clothes.”

“Dammit,” Jensen huffs. “You know me too well.”

Jared smirks and peels himself away from Jensen to stand up and unbutton his jeans. “Way too well. C’mon, these jeans have been killing me.”

They head down the hall and up the stairs to Jensen’s territory. In comparison to Jared’s room, Jensen’s might as well be quarantined and preserved for archaeologists to discover thousands of years from now. They’ll discover the typical room of a spoiled American teenager accustomed to barely any parental supervision. Condoms litter his floor, because last night he had to search for his glasses when he lost a contact and it involved dumping out the contents of his nightstand drawer.

The perennial nose scrunch occurs when Jared sees the result of Jensen’s late night search for his glasses and by proxy, his contacts.

Conducting a sniff test of various pajama and lazy, around the house pants, Jensen ignores the comments Jared itches to say. This is his room and therefore, if he wants bags of half-eaten Werther’s caramel coffee candy strewn everywhere within reach of his bed then so be it. Tales have been told where Mrs. Padalecki inspected how Jared made his bed as early as the age of eight years old.

Jensen prides himself on sleeping buck ass naked, over a pile of sheets that may or may not be clean.

However, his boyfriend seems to be on the verge of another cranky spell, so Jensen quickly tosses him two items: a pair of clean, gray pajama pants, and a present wrapped in newspaper.

“What’s this?” Jared asks, unwrapped the gift before changing out of the jeans that are supposedly killing him. “Jen, if this is another box of fake poop, I’m super gluing them to your face.”

“You used the first box I gave you.”

“No— _you_ did!”

“Hmm, I can’t remember.”

“You stuck one on every windshield on the block.”

“Oh yeah,” Jensen laughs, running a hand through his hair. “ _That_. I remember now. Maybe next time you should accept the gifts I give you.”

Grumbling, Jared shucks off the last layer of newspaper. “The gifts you give me are like the dead mice cats bring their owners.”

“Gee, Jay, you always tell me the most romantic things.”

Jared’s mouth opens to rebuff that comment, but stays open in shock as he uncovers the present. It’s nothing too fancy, and really, nothing that special. But Jensen figured he’d pick it up for a rainy day. Although it might not be raining outside, clearly something happened at the Padalecki household this morning to warrant a torrential downpour.

“You got me gel pens,” Jared says, his tone as soft as the thump he makes sitting down on Jensen’s bed. He brushes his hands over the package of twelve assorted Jelly Roll gel pens. “Oh, Jen. You’re such a sap.”

Pleased by the reception, Jensen takes a seat next to Jared, making no attempt to hide his smile.

All they did the first week of math class freshman year was pass notes back and forth to each other. Jared sat in front of Jensen, and he was the first one to start writing with gel pens. They stood out more than regular pens or pencils. Jensen resisted the move to gel pens and lasted about a day before he too was trying not to smudge his latest attempt at winning Jared over.

Before afterschool chess was a thing, they sat on the steps and Jared drew his notes onto Jensen.

Now, Jared opens the pack, selecting green. He draws a tiny heart on the back of Jensen’s hand. The press of the pen elicits sensations in Jensen that manage to feel simultaneously familiar and new. Jared fills the heart in, then traces the outline in white. In the most striking way, hazel eyes look up, framed by long lashes, and filled with emotions they’re not supposed to know anything about yet. Words to express those emotions get caught in Jensen’s throat and refuse to filter out. The blockage creates an ache in his chest echoing the tickle on his hand.

“Thank you.” Jared places his hands on the outline of Jensen’s jaw. “For everything.”

“I should be saying that,” Jensen murmurs. It’s instinct to lean into this touch.

Dimples peek out. Good boy Jared shines through, all tenderness and affection. He presses fluttering kisses all over Jensen’s face—on his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, forehead, chin, and finally, his lips.

Words disintegrate. And their gentle caresses convert to carefree gropes and electric, rousing kisses.

Jensen exhales pure thirst.

Kisses work into nips and bites and the fragmented hitches of breath that kindle a single flame into wildfire. Jared tastes like strawberry jam and toast. Jensen slides his hand up Jared’s thigh, seeking permission, groaning when Jared grabs his hand and guides it to the swell of his ass. The bed creaks as they shift and rotate together, their hips in revolution, Jared’s hands brushing over Jensen’s thighs, stomach, and chest.

Unsure and uncaring of how, Jensen finds himself naked, flat on his back in the best way possible—underneath the easy weight of eyes turned cobalt and a smile heralding the return of bad boy mischief.

Who knew clothes could be taken off so quick?

And who knew the next few words could be uttered from a boy who attends church every Sunday without fail?

“Fuck me in the backseat of your dad’s car, Jen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of angst, in preparation for what's next! 
> 
> thank you all for reading! <3


	12. Chapter 12

Car sex can be awkward and uncomfortable.

Does bad boy Jared care?

Hell no.

He takes what he wants and what he wants happens to be between Jensen’s legs. Kneeling in the foot wells, he blows Jensen sloppy and scorching. Pink lips pop off with a smack, forming a challenging smirk. Tracing the tip of Jensen’s cock with his tongue, Jared looks up, locks eyes with Jensen, and eases his lips back over the swollen, drooling head.

Nothing takes place over seeing Jared’s cheeks puff out with the action of what he’s doing.

One firm hand grasps Jensen’s chin and pulls him down.

Jared kisses him, slipping his tongue in, opening up and releasing a long, loud, heated moan. The noise combined with tasting himself on Jared’s tongue sends a shiver up his spine.

Next thing Jensen knows, his own mouth seals around one peaked, tight nipple. He curls his tongue around the sensitive nub and increases the pressure. Figure eights. Letters. Circles. Around and around and around, he works his tongue and lips in sync with each other. Fingers grip his hair.

The rip and crackle of a condom barely registers to either of them.

With Jared straddling his thighs, Jensen grits his teeth at the first push, gasping as Jared works himself down without assistance. The burn consumes them both. All around him, Jared clenches, pulses, and contracts. He holds onto the leather backseat, propped up, hips twisting and thighs working. Every window fogs up and when Jared starts to actually move, the car’s suspension sounds out in time with each corkscrew down.

They never left the garage.

In this private world within a world, Jensen reaches out, and with a satisfied sigh, fuses their lips together.

Bad boy Jared responds in kind—biting, nipping, tugging on Jensen’s plush bottom lip. He places Jensen’s hands exactly where he wants them: one on his ass and the other on his chest. And after two motions, he shows Jensen the necessary pace. Onetwothreeonetwothree.

Breathless, Jensen tries to keep up.

But it looks like that’s not the point here.

Jared rides him, wild and uninhibited, rough and assertive. He sets the pace, measures the depth of each stroke, and holds Jensen inside him deep. Mesmerizing and divine, Jared tosses his head back, baring every naked curve of his chest and hips. Moaning, he comes untouched, messy and thick all over Jensen’s stomach.

Trembling all over, Jared clings to Jensen’s shoulders.

Pressure. Heat. Sweet, saccharine, seductive stimulation. The suspension creaks. Sweat builds over their bodies. Jared’s hair begins to curl at the ends. Every heaving exhale produces more humidity, fueling the electricity between them. Jensen’s thighs work, meeting each powerful slope of Jared’s hips. The sound of skin against skin slapping together echoes through the car until Jared squeezes his eyes shut tight and seizes, taking Jensen to the hilt, hips swiveling.

In these last moments of any ability to think, Jensen seals his mouth over one of Jared’s nipples, sucking rough and merciless on the peak, groaning as he feels his cock twitch and swell buried inside Jared.

Screaming every swear word he’s ever heard Jensen say, Jared loses it. He comes hard enough that one pearly rope lands on Jensen’s collarbone. All Jensen can do as Jared rocks through his orgasm—and his own rips through him—is lay back in absolute bliss.

Several minutes pass by before Jensen can coherently piece together thoughts or words.

Eventually, they leave the Nissan, with promises to clean it later.

Jensen stumbles out, naked, glad that they never left the garage. Jared follows, laughing easy, slinging an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and shutting the passenger door.

“You’re a mess,” Jared hums out, pressing a kiss to Jensen’s cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

There are only a few places in town safe enough to hang out in unnoticed when playing hooky.

“What did I tell you about not fucking this up?” Fanny growls from behind a row of orchids.

Bells chime upon their entry into Fanny’s Flower Farm. Jared drops Jensen’s hand in favor for paying attention to a section of tulips. For once, the flower shop isn’t swarming with nosy adults or judgmental elderly people.

“This is not fucking this up,” Jensen clarifies. Careful, he stays just out of Fanny’s reach with the scissors and watering can. “This is… a day of meditation and study of the self.”

“You’re ditching.”

“Well, if you _must_ put it that way, yes.”

Fanny eyes Jared for a moment, then resumes glaring at Jensen. “You gonna buy anything or you just gonna hang around here like hooligans? This ain’t no library. I could call the cops and they’ll haul your saggy jeans out of here like that!”

Although many young scholars at school prefer their jeans three sizes too large and to sit at their thighs instead of anywhere near their waists, Jensen has never subscribed to that particular fashion trend. His jeans aren’t immaculate, but they fit. What people his age have yet to understand is that no one can _see_ what lies beneath the jeans if it’s covered by swaths of denim. Jensen believes his ass is a gift to the world, and more specifically, a gift to Jared.

“I’m buying something!” From a jungle of flowers, Jared chirps, happily trotting towards the counter with a potted plant. “Jensen, pay the lady.”

“What?!”

“You heard him,” Fanny snaps. “That’s twenty-five, thirty if you want a care package with it.”

Jared places the plant on the counter for Fanny to wrap. “Oh, what’s that?”

“Come with a book and a watering can. If you’re going to let that hellraiser there touch this plant, you’ll want the book. Hyacinths need good care.”

Without a shred of hesitation, Jared nods and agrees to the extra five dollar charge. He completely ignores Jensen’s grumbling about how they could be eating like kings at Ilan’s for thirty bucks of his father’s money; instead, they’re here, paying for a plant he can’t even eat.

“And you had to pick pink,” Jensen scowls.

Nose scrunch. “And what _exactly_ are you trying to insinuate by that, Jen?”

“I hate pink.”

“Not manly enough for you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Oh, because you’re some big tough guy, right?”

“Hell yes. These could destroy my reputation.”

“Right,” Jared murmurs, turning to face Jensen, smoothing out Jensen’s shirt at his shoulders. “Because clearly, I couldn’t at all be as manly as you.” The second Fanny walks out of hearing range, Jared’s voice lowers. “I like the color pink and I take eight inches of cock up my ass on a regular basis, suck cock like it’s my job, and leave you one spent, satisfied wreck.”

“That’s thirty even,” Fanny declares, headed back to the counter from the back room, where she went to get the care package.

Jared shoves Jensen away from him, thumping him on the chest. “You heard the lady, cough it up, bad boy.”

If anyone’s the bad boy, it’s Jared. Jensen has done nothing to deserve his reputation as town hellraiser. Nothing at all. He never ever repainted the lines in the teacher parking lot at school so they were two inches closer, leading to doors being dented and some teachers to climb through either windows or sun roofs. And he certainly never decorated a weather balloon launched at an assembly to reveal itself as a set of giant, flying tits.

“Quit your belly aching.” Fanny swipes the money from Jensen’s grip. “Follow out back.”

“Don’t kill me in the back of your shop,” Jensen groans. “Not today.”

“Quiet, or I get out the lead pipe.”

“The lead pipe in the back of the flower shop,” Jared whispers and follows.

“How can you be so cheerful about my impending death?”

“I love Clue.”

“This is not Clue.”

“Tim Curry, Jen.”

“This is no time for Tim Curry!”

“It is _always_ time for Tim Curry.”

“Just roll my body to the side, would you? Before you run off to meet your twu luv Tim Curry.”

Fanny opens the door to the alleyway behind her shop and hisses, “I said quiet!”

Jensen points at Jared, but it doesn’t help. Fanny hikes forth, knocking a few empty crates and flower boxes aside. She must have had a shipment come in recently; packing paper, boxes, and stems lie in ruins everywhere. Her footing, however, remains as steady as ever. Not an earthquake could interrupt Fanny when she’s lecturing Jensen. As she walks ahead, she mutters on about how Jensen has to learn some god damn responsibility and it’s not good for young men to stay inside all day looking at pornographic materials and never paying any rent to their mothers who should have known better than to let their sons move back in at the age of forty expecting turndown service and continental breakfasts.

Exchanging looks of awe and fear, Jared and Jensen huddle a little closer together.

They stop two steps behind Fanny, at a giant sheet of canvas draped over something lumpy.

“Could be a coffin,” Jensen gulps.

“Too small to be a coffin,” Jared answers, looping his arm through Jensen’s.

“Not if she cuts me up into pieces.”

“What’s the point in that?”

“She couldn’t afford a big coffin.”

“You saying I’m cheap?” Fanny grumbles, hands on her hips.

“I’m saying you’re frugal,” Jensen says, revising his previous statement.

“Your mouth’s gonna land you in hot water one day, hooligan.”

Jared doesn’t miss the opportunity to chime in. “It already does.”

Traitorous boyfriend! Jensen moves in for a noogie, but stops when Fanny pulls at the canvas sheet. She huffs out that they are welcome to watch her struggle. Jensen and Jared scramble to help. Peeling back the sheet, the mystery reveals itself, wonderful and not a coffin at all.

“A motorcycle!” Jensen gasps. “Holy shit!”

Coughing and waving away some of the dust that had settled over the sheet, Fanny reaches into her apron and tosses a set of keys at Jensen. “No shit, at least your eyes work as well as your mouth.” She throws a crumpled manual at him next. “Let’s see if you can read.”

Holding the manual, his hands shaking from excitement, Jensen reads the cover out loud. “Triumph Scrambler, 865cc eight-valve… oh fuck. Holy shit. I think… I’m having a heart attack.”

“You’re not giving this to him, are you?” Jared asks, his eyes wide. “You know what Jen will do with a motorcycle?”

“Spin out a few times and bust up that face pretty good, I bet,” Fanny replies, one hand on the bike. “If I see him riding it without a helmet, he won’t have to wait for an accident for me to bash his head in. Saw it myself on Route 66. Guy thought he was so god damn cool going ninety and then—bam! Accident took his head clean off. It landed a good thirty feet away, skull broke open.”

Jensen resists the urge to ask more questions about the decapitation. “Are you pulling something here? Showing this to me just to get my hopes up?”

“My son’s had his eye on this since I had it hauled back from the desert,” Fanny mutters with a sigh. “I bought this after my Trophy got smashed up. I let my idiot ex-husband drive it the one time and… well, look. I’d rather see your goofy, no good, hooligan ass apply yourself to something and take care of her instead of watching my son think he gets everything I worked for handed to him.”

“Were you part of the Angels?” Jensen asks, keys in one hand and manual in the other.

Shrugging, Fanny declares that she ran into them a few times, maybe spent some time with one or two of them that she won’t go into detail about because of underage ears in her presence, but she mostly rode solo in her other life.

Only the sound of the bells at the front door interrupts their meeting.

She shoves them back into the store so Jared can grab his plant. On the way, she sets up the rules to the Scrambler. There won’t be any backdoor way of learning to ride; he’s got to get his parents’ permission to get his motorcycle license, and before he can do that, he’s got to enroll and pay for a class since he’s underage. Then, he’s got to spend time with Fanny afterschool to learn how to care for the Scrambler.

And if she sees him riding it without a helmet and a jacket on, she’ll raise hell like he’s never seen.

Shooed out of the shop so she can attend to customers who aren’t ditching class, Fanny doesn’t accept any thank yous or vows of Godfather-like loyalty.

On the sidewalk, Jensen examines both things they left with: Jared’s potted pink hyacinth and a Triumph Scrambler.

Even Jensen can admit that it’s been a pretty good day.


	13. Chapter 13

Ilan lets them eat lunch in the apartment above his restaurant.

He stores coffee, rice, and beans in this space. The smell of food being cooked mixes in with the strong, heady scents of everything in storage. Sitting on top of bags of rice, Jared and Jensen pass containers back and forth. Jensen moved the bags closer to a bank of windows. Within a few minutes the draft in the apartment can barely be felt. Sunshine and steam from containers of yucca and congris warm them up, gradually replaced with nibbling kisses and embraces that last longer than five seconds.

For once, Jensen doesn’t spoil the moment with sarcastic, crude remarks.

Jared reveals two gel pens hidden in the pockets of Jensen’s sweat pants. He alternates kisses with drawings all over Jensen. Some of the drawings make sense—their initials, some moons and stars, vines with flowers. Some of them, like the gingerbread man on Jensen’s stomach, make no sense. Despite this, Jensen makes no complaints.

At some point he turns over onto his stomach and allows the gel pens to draw stained glass panels and feathers.

“My parents want me to go to a youth camp this summer,” Jared murmurs, filling in a panel. “It’s this ridiculous place in an old church that teaches us to be better servants of God.” His weight rests on Jensen’s ass comfortably.

Cheek against his forearm, Jensen laughs softly. “What a crock. Why don’t they just tell you they’re sending you to a convent?”

“Convents are supposed to be peaceful.” Familiar fingers pause. “This doesn’t sound peaceful at all.”

“Convents are supposed to keep the people inside from having sex with their no good boyfriends.”

“It’s either that or I go visit my Aunt Kitty in Arizona.”

“That Aunt who devotes her life to painting saints?”

“The very one.”

“Your choices are bleak. I think you should stay with me.”

“Oh yeah, in your garage.”

“Hell no. You could sleep with Socks in the living room.”

“Don’t make me write bad words on your back.”

“I would love that.”

“Fine, I’ll write ‘teach me about God.’”

“Don’t, Jay. My skin will burn.”

“Do you believe in God, Jen?”

“…who cares what I believe in?”

Jared rubs Jensen’s shoulders, his hands over skin he left unmarked for this purpose. The touch and release of tension in his back lull Jensen into a deceptive calm.

Quietly, Jared replies, “I do.”

With a huff, Jensen closes his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s some dude up there _that_ interested in what I do with my right hand at night.”

“It’s more than that, you know.”

“Do I?”

“It’s about your soul.”

“And what does this dude care about my soul?”

“Don’t you think about these things at all?”

“Well…”

“No jokes.” Jared cards his fingers through Jensen’s hair, tugging lightly.

“What’s with these questions, Jay?”

“Maybe I just wanna know some stuff.”

Jensen rolls onto his side and looks up at his boyfriend. “What if my answer is stupid? Or wrong?”

Hazel eyes soften. One hand moves to cup Jensen’s cheek. “Your answer could never be stupid. And what if… what if we’re all wrong?”

Eyes closed once again, Jensen murmurs, “I think I just wanna try to be a good person. In ways that really matter.”

“Yeah? Like what ways?”

“Like this.”

Maybe Jensen’s not winning a student of the year award any time soon. Maybe he should quit manipulating his classmates, ease up on supergluing fake shit onto windshields, and cut back on tampering with weather balloons. Maybe he should actually go to school five days a week.

But if he has to think about life and the bigger picture, he believes that moments like this one matter so much more than grades, tests, and assemblies.

He grabs a gel pen and draws a heart on Jared’s right wrist.

Locking eyes, Jensen smiles, pressing a kiss to Jared’s palm.

The smile he receives in exchange makes the entire universe and afterlife worth it.

 

On the walk from Jensen’s to Jared’s at around four, their conversation lightens up.

Summer looms over them, just three months away.

“What if I go to the youth program?” Jensen kicks a rock on the sidewalk.

“Heh, that’d be interesting to say the least.” Jared kicks the same rock.

“How long you think I’d last?” Jensen kicks it again.

“Oh, maybe a few days.” Jared.

“Few days? C’mon, give me some credit. I bet I could last a week. Especially if I got a chance to fuck you in a confessional booth thingy.” Jensen.

“Ugh, is that all you think about?” Jared.

“No, I definitely do not spend my time thinking about dark booths with an old judgmental guy on the other side of a piece of cardboard. I spend it thinking about that sweet ass of yours.” Jensen.

“This sweet ass is currently wearing sweat pants.” Jared.

“ _My_ sweat pants, which automatically makes them ten times hotter on you.” Jensen, but he misses.

“You’re just saying that.” Jared stretches and kicks the rock straight ahead, back in play.

“I would never ‘just say that’ about your ass, Jay.” Jensen.

“So you _are_ serious about some things.” Jared.

“Things that matter. Like your butt. And my butt. And possibly our butts together.” Jensen.

“Does your butt want your sweat pants back now or later?” Jared.

“Eh, keep them. I’ve got plenty.” Jensen.

“Thanks. My mom must have shrunk my jeans again.” Jared.

“Or you’re going through a growth spurt. Remember last summer? You shot up like a weed.” Jensen.

“Not all of us glided into adolescence like a runway model, Jensen. We are finally the same height thanks to that unpleasantness of last summer.” Jared.

“I’m gonna end up taller than you. Just wait and see.” Jensen, though he kicks a little too hard.

“Whatever. I just can’t button any of my jeans without laying on my bed first.” Jared.

“You wanna borrow some of my jeans?” Jensen.

“My mother would have a fit and you know that. Your jeans are all ripped.” Jared.

“It’s called fashion. Besides, she’d have a fit about something sooner or later related to me.” Jensen.

“True. Hey, would you be able to drive me to the mall tomorrow after school? I have some Easter money left and I could buy some new jeans.” Jared.

“Ugh, you said after school.” Jensen.

“I have a test in History, Jen, I can’t miss that.” Jared.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine, after school we’ll hit up the mall. Way to harsh my buzz.” Jensen.

“Oh yeah? Here’s another harsh to your buzz.” Jared.

“What?” Jensen.

“We’re here.” Jared.

“Oh.” Jensen.

“Yep.” Jared.

“Can I come in?” Jensen.

“You gonna behave?” Jared.

“Promise me you’ll let me blow you during lunch tomorrow.” Jensen.

“If you must.” Jared.

“Don’t make it sound like that. You love it.” Jensen.

“Yeah, I kind of do…” Jared.

“I’m keeping this rock.” Jensen.

“We kicked it pretty far.” Jared.

“Wonder what that means.” Jensen.

“It means you wanna wash the dishes again, my big strong man.” Jared.

“Sure does. Step aside. Or should I carry you in again?” Jensen.

“No, I’m good, thank you.”

“You think I can make a necklace out of this?”

“Sure. I’ll help you.”

“You want me to drop off your plant later?”

“Sorta… but I think it has a better chance of surviving if it stays with you.”

“Great, first I get to pay for it, now I get to water it.”

“That’s right. It better not wilt.” Jared punches in a code to his garage. “Read the book that came with it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen replies that since that care package thing whatever cost an extra five bucks he’s going to not only read it, but potentially craft monuments in its honor.

Inside the garage, they wind and twist their way around Mrs. Padalecki’s Honda Odyssey, a purple behemoth Jensen has only seen the inside of once. A few months back it rained enough for the street to flood. Jared begged his mother to give him a ride home instead of making him walk. She was kind enough at the time to give in, though only after a solid fifteen minutes of begging. Jensen’s still fairly certain she doubts his ability not to drown in the rain like a turkey.

Jared leads and Jensen follows.

The Padalecki household perpetually smells like laundry detergent and the inside of a church.

Walking towards the kitchen, Jensen adjusts to their limited surroundings. They no longer hold hands. Two feet of space muscles its way between them. With every foot step closer to the kitchen—where Mrs. Padalecki waits in her usual place by the island—anxiety takes its dastardly hold on each of them. Jared’s shoulders tense and his spine straightens; Jensen’s stomach regrets that second helping of congris.

However, the thought of spending an afternoon under the unforgiving glower and all-knowing gaze of Mrs. Padalecki pales in comparison to the real deal.

Not a small woman, her personality only enhances the figure she cuts in any room.

Any of the previous lightheartedness to their day becomes a bleak, dismal shadow.

Even the crosses and crucifixes survey their territory with more scrutiny than usual.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Well, nothing ever feels right in this house to Jensen, but the sensation weighs on him more than usual. It drags his entire body down. His footsteps slow, yet his breathing accelerates. Judgmental apprehension consumes every molecule of air. Harsh, uneasy, silent stillness throughout the house assails the senses.

They have nowhere to go in this structure than straight to the kitchen.

Jensen briefly thinks of grabbing Jared by the hem of his shirt and suggesting they go to the park.

Anywhere but here.

But he can’t explain the manner of his actions or the reason behind them, so he follows, rounding the corner, stepping onto the pale beige tile floor of the kitchen. Spotless appliances and cutlery form an audience, sullen and overwhelming. They lead to their singular master, sitting on a bar stool at the granite island, her hands gripping what looks to be a plastic bag.

Frigid eyes land on Jensen. A flicker of anger blankets those eyes.

She had expected to do this without anyone else home.

Now, with the source of her turmoil present, Jensen witnesses her plans take a hard right turn down a hazardous road.

Quicker than either boy can react, her hand extends, gripping onto Jared’s right wrist. Her nails dig into his skin like talons, piercing the gel pen heart. Frightened, pained shouts shrivel up the moment their echoes hit her ears. Uncompromising, she drags her son forward, his sneakers scraping the floor. Muscles underneath the crossing guard uniform flex—relentless and firm.

The sound of everything competes with the horrific image.

Desperate, Jared twists, crying out, banging his right shoulder against a wall. She knows every manoeuver, her senses so acute to his pain, and manages to shove her son into the guest bathroom.

In fuming, remorseless rage, she throws the plastic bag at his feet.

She slams the door. The next mandatory steps understood by the teenager sobbing in the bathroom.

Jensen hears it at the same time she does—the fumbling, terrified opening of cardboard, the accusing crinkle of plastic, followed by soft, wounded sniffling and another personal sound.

Before he can register what that all amounts to, polished fingernails dig into his scalp. Meaty, vicious hands pull at his hair, pinning him in place as if he had any intention of fleeing. Attempts at silencing his traitorous mouth fail; she catches him by surprise and therefore, his own resonance of pain joins Jared’s, buried under a conservative carpet rug.

Premature, the bathroom door wrenches open.

Jared holds his jeans in one hand and the product inside that box in another. He only had time to pull up his briefs. His face distorted with anguish and horror, he screams for his mother to let Jensen go.

Every motion and movement escalates in horrendous energy. Clawing fingernails release Jensen and reach for a more important target. Her hands move to grab it, her body thundering, fingers flexing like the skittering arms of a cockroach.

Within her clenching hands, she holds one pregnancy test.

Louder than the bells tolling in a cathedral, she bellows the results.

Jensen sees the next scene unfold before Jared does. Frantic, incensed with fury, he dives forward.

But he’s too late.

The brutal smack against Jared’s cheek releases a tidal wave of blood from his nose. It leaves behind the most sordid bruise, followed by foul language commanding the word of God, the Holy Scripture, the putrid evils of sex before marriage, and the damned future of the innocent life Jared and this filth have brought into this world.

Jared’s sobs pause for nothing.

He clings to his jeans, making efforts to pull them up, sobs mangling the words he tries to utter. Slammed against a wall once more, he stumbles to his knees, crawling away from his mother towards Jensen. But her hawk eyes and insect limbs prevent contact.

Their afternoon ends in godly agony spurred by this monstrous crusade.

Locked in his room from the outside, Jensen catches a glimpse of Jared’s fingers frantically sticking out under the door. He can hear his name shouted, but it doesn’t register to him as much as that tortuous visual. Somehow, he finds his body pushed away from where it needs to be, from knocking the door down and showing everyone in this fucking town just how much hell he can raise.

A hushed reminder speaks louder to Jensen in his head than the vile, tainted words Mrs. Padalecki spits out at her front door.

 _Don’t cause more trouble for Jared._ “Depart from me, you accursed, into that eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels”

The front door crashes to a close behind him.

Only the rattle of a familiar window, palms pressed against the glass, remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are! 
> 
> i'm in awe of this story just because it came out of left field for me. thank you T for inspiring it, thank you J for beta'ing it. thank you all for being here to read it. <3
> 
> comments are love!
> 
> also, i was raised catholic. not all catholics or religious folks are like this. i am well aware. this is fic.


	14. Chapter 14

Evicted, Jensen runs.

Festering ghosts chase him, haunting every movement, slithering up the sidewalk.

The houses on the block stare at the desperate, frenzied figure he cuts. Shutters turn sinister. Closed doors repel his presence. Mailboxes act as silent skeletal witnesses to his tears, gasps, and frantic, frightened grasps for his phone.

Smothered by spidery, splintering anxiety, Jensen’s sneakers barely touch the ground. He doesn’t register fumbling around with the key to the front door or ignoring Socks’ concerned barks.

Words and all their meanings tie around him from head to toe. They snake their way past his skin, exhuming every nauseating fact, pushing out the bleak, blinding, inescapable truth: Jared is pregnant.

Staggering, Jensen’s shadow casts a startling image in the hallway.

His joints and muscles seize. Every limb stiffens.

Paralyzed by his own realizations, his mind releases overwhelming, gagging, unavoidable statements. Jared is pregnant. Jared is pregnant. Jared. Is. Pregnant. Jaredispregnant. Jared is. Pregnant. Jared. Is Pregnant. Jared-is-pregnant. _Jared is pregnant_. **Jared is pregnant _._** Jared is pregnant. **_Jared is pregnant_**.

Jensen pitches himself to the ground, kneeling on the hardwood floor to press his forehead against it, bowing before the rising tempest of thoughts splitting his head in two.

Jared is pregnant.

It doesn’t matter how this is said, whispered, screamed, cried, or thought.

Nothing changes.

Useless tears pool over mahogany boards. There’s no reason to cry. Tears won’t fix anything. His twisted, tumultuous gasps for breath won’t provide answers to any of his question. His fingers digging into the meat of his palms will do nothing but contaminate him further. This is all his fault. The transgression is his. The trouble is his. The blame is wholly his.

Guilt cracks through him like fault lines. He should have checked the condoms better. He was the one penetrating, so he should have taken better care of Jared. None of this would have happened had he kept his hands off of Jared to begin with. It just never seemed like _this_ would happen to them.

How many times have they had sex and nothing happened?

All of Jensen’s rationalizations wilt. They extend on the floor, mimicking his body, lying flat on their backs and exposed to the wild, inscrutable truth.

He got Jared pregnant.

This is something he _did_ to Jared.

Staring up at the waxy ceiling, Jensen sinks into the howling recesses of his thoughts. Baby. Jared. Jared. Baby. Pregnant. Baby. Jared. Baby. Condoms. Sex. Baby. Jared. Fifteen. Jared won’t turn sixteen for another four months. Where are they going to be in four months? What’s he going to look like in four months? Jensen doesn’t know the first thing about pregnancy or babies. Will it look anything like that calf? What exactly is the miracle of life? Did he miss the portion of health class where their teacher talked about this? What does he do? What role does he play? Does he have any say in this at all as either a minor or the father? Wasn’t a condom enough? Why wasn’t it enough? It’s been enough every single time up until now…

Jensen sits up. His thoughts scatter like insects.

They were careful. Every time. Or at least, they thought they were. With a hand in his hair, he thinks back, the past cursing his memory, warping it into something foul and repulsive.

He was mouthing off day. They were here, on his bed, making out and skipping school and hungry for each other. Jared had him pinned down, beautiful, breathless, and beaming. Alone time together was precious. But then Jensen had to start talking. He had to mention a scene from a porno he’d discovered by way of snooping around his last Principal’s desk. It was nothing more than a story—a badly written story at that—about a middle aged man receiving a blow job from his twenty something secretary.

Maybe they should act it out, Jensen suggested. He could be the secretary.

Jared laughed at him. They fought over it in kisses and gropes and on the spot auditions. All too convincing with his dimples and good boy voice, Jared won the role of secretary. What else did she do? Was it just a regular blow job? Nah, of course that wasn’t it. No one keeps bland porn in their desk at work. It had to be something kinky enough to risk it.

The secretary just happened to have a very gifted mouth. She was everything any middle aged man wanted—an expert with her lips, tongue, and eyes. Of course, after the blow job, she would beg him to fuck her over his desk or in his business chair.

Laughing, Jared didn’t believe Jensen. People read this? They fantasized about it?

Jensen’s response was to hand over a condom. He hadn’t said the porn was _good_. But it did have one redeeming point, one thing that made it slightly passable—the secretary rolled the condom onto the guy with her mouth.

Bad boy Jared scoffed at the challenge.

Piece of cake.

It was Jensen’s idea.

If he hadn’t brought it up. If he had insisted they swap out the condom. If he hadn’t…

Jarring realities invade his mind once more, screeching out the verdict of his unquestionable guilt.

Burying his face in his hands, Jensen curls up, spoiled in his solitude. Shit happens and here he is, crying like a baby when he has neither father nor mother to fear. He isn’t the one trapped in his room, subject to the word of the Lord, and worse, vulnerable to the actions of the Lord’s work through tangible hands and parental control.

He’s just the selfish asshole that got Jared pregnant.

 

Two hours pass before Jensen attempts any action.

He spends those two hours sequestered in his room, sitting on his bed, gaping at the collection of money he scrounged from various hiding places throughout the house. Every piece of technology, except his phone, joins him on the bed. His XBOX 360, his PS4, his Gameboy Advance, his iPad, and his laptop reflect his image back to him on their blank screens.

Four hundred dollars cash.

Maybe another four hundred from the electronics, if he can talk up the pawn shop.

His bicycle might provide another hundred.

And the videogames to each console, plus his collection of DVDs and comic books have a good shot at yielding another hundred, even a hundred and fifty if he goes to the used bookstore in the next town over.

It all puts him at a thousand dollars, most of it only a specter.

Hospitals will bill. They have payment plans. There’s a midwife and doctor in town. They can be convinced to make payment plans, or even write shit off.

But how much is a case of diapers? Is there anything else Jared might need until then? Is baby food expensive? How much do babies eat? But wouldn’t the baby breastfeed for a while? Or do babies breastfeed and eat pureed green beans at the same time? And clothes. Do babies grow fast or can they wear a onesie for a while? How many outfits does a baby need? One? Two?

What if there are complications?

What if he loses Jared?

Or the baby?

What if Jared doesn’t keep the baby at all?

What if he does?

Endless questions seethe at the walls of Jensen’s mind. They dismantle every logical thought and all of his rational processes. Like locusts, they pit themselves against any positive notion, devouring every last scrap of hope.

He owns not one of the items on his bed or in his room. He didn’t buy them or pay for them with his own money. Half of the cash he excavated from his father’s stash. The other half were bribes from school or bets he hadn’t yet spent at Ilan’s or Fanny’s. Disgusted, Jensen grabs the wad of cash and pitches it at the opposite wall, screaming nonsense at the bills as they flutter to the ground.

Then he creeps out of bed and crawls over to the closest bill—five dollars.

He picks up each one, shaking, peeling them off the floor and stuffing them into his pockets.

His fingers graze just one of a multitude of dangerous options. The case over his phone feels unforgiving and sharp. When he pries the phone out of his pocket, the backlight hurts his eyes.

One simple swipe of the screen and his contacts loom on display.

For once, it is desperation that fuels him, not confidence.

His thumb punches the second name on the list.

“Hello?” After three rings, the voice that answers does not belong to Donna.

“Carlo?” Jensen croaks.

Donna’s assistant shouts to people in the background—on set most likely—to shut up. The line crackles. “Jensen? Is that you?”

“Yeah.” Could it not be? Could this be someone else’s conversation?

“Miss Donna is shooting right now, honey.”

“Where?”

“I told you to shut up! Jensen is on the phone! I can’t hear him—don’t look at me like that Owen or I will tear out your eyes and pee on your brain.” Carlo clears his throat. “Sorry, honey. We’re on set in Argentina, somewhere outside of Buenos Aires. Your father just left for Peru. You want me to take a message?”

He could keep this from them.

“Some crazy lady called earlier,” Carlo relays. “She said something about an emergency with you. But then she said something about the devil—crazy, crazy woman.”

Or not.

He shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t even think about that.

Ashamed of his thoughts, Jensen keeps his head down.

“No message… Carlo, I… I really need to talk to my mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i kind of wrote myself in a little hole last chapter lol. i just felt like nothing could top last chapter and i got all nervous. but, after a break, here we are! onward! 
> 
> thank you for being here!


	15. Chapter 15

Donna Ackles rarely repeats herself.

However, on a satellite phone call to her son fourteen hours away, she can’t help ask the same question three times in a row.

“Are you _sure_?”

Jensen doesn’t know how much more certain someone can be that they’re pregnant. Jared peed on a stick. It said positive. Everything that they’ve been dismissing as adolescence or stress now stems from something that should have been more obvious. But condoms. They were using condoms. Thousands of condoms, probably. Hell, Jensen was probably keeping the pharmacy on Main Street in business because of how many condoms he bought a month. And when he learned he could buy them in bulk online for cheaper, it was a blessed day.

He thought he knew everything about condoms.

After all, he was no stranger to them. Never put more than one on at the same time. Check expiration dates. Never use a condom you didn’t buy yourself. Use water based lube. Never use a condom more than once.

“Jensen, are you _sure_?” Fourth time.

“He took a pregnancy test, mom!”

Crackling, muffled noises erupt from Jensen’s phone. This could be due to the spotty connection or his parents wrestling for airtime. Whatever it is, Alan wins out. His dad voice manages to steamroll through the speakers despite the voice of origin being some thirty thousand feet off the ground. While rarely, if really ever, used dad voice commands Jensen’s immediate attention.

“Jensen,” Alan snaps. “Are you telling me that you got this boy pregnant?”

Socks couldn’t whimper better than Jensen at the moment. “…yeah.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t we have that talk, Jensen?!”

“What talk?!” Jensen shouts back, gesturing to no one with his free hand. “You said not to have sex in the backseat of your car—great talk, pop!”

“I told you to be careful and here we are!”

As Jensen spits out as many sarcastic comments as possible, his parents resume their fight for control over the phone. His call for help has clearly been a mistake.

“Stop it—just stop. No, I mean it, Alan. Not another word. Jensen?” Now Donna sounds the way she does when talking to producers she’s about to fire. Could she fire her own son? “Did you see the test?”

Did he? Everything happened so fast.

“Also,” his mother sighs, “over the counter pregnancy tests aren’t one hundred percent accurate. It could be a false positive.”

Jensen blurts out his answer. “I-I don’t know! What other way do you even check?”

“With a doctor, Jensen.”

“Sure,” he hisses into the phone’s mic, “let’s just get Jared to a doctor. That’ll be real fucking easy while he’s under lock and key in his own house!”

“Language!” Alan gripes in the background.

“Oh stop,” Donna mutters. “Jensen, they’ve got this boy locked up?”

“He has a name.”

“I’m sorry—Jared. His parents have him locked up?”

“Yeah. Mom, I don’t know what to do…” Without Jensen’s permission, his voice cracks and falters. He curls up on his bed, surrounded by the things he means to trade for quick cash. Socks is definitely not beside him being clung to like the one living creature in the world he has access to for comfort.

“Just wait,” Donna breathes, “just wait and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

If only everything was just as easy.

 

Midnight covers up the wrinkles of daytime.

Pale, milky pavement guides each sneakered step.

Jensen could make the walk over with his eyes closed. In fact, he tries a few times, closing his eyes for a few seconds at a time, hoping that what he finds when they’re open has transformed into something better. He resists Donna’s questioning about being _sure_.

A few, limited facts make more sense now—it wasn’t food, it was morning sickness; it wasn’t a growth spurt, it was cravings; it wasn’t just hormones, it was…

A sleek, black SUV towers over the modest, beige sedan Jensen knows belongs to Mr. Padalecki. He’s seen this SUV before, but he can’t quite place it. As he approaches the house, Jensen ducks down, keeping his footsteps light and movements just as quick. This mission holds a thousand times greater risk than any previous nocturnal escapade. Dressed in black, with a navy baseball cap on, he navigates the driveway, mindful not to touch either car.

Soon enough, details reveal themselves, subtle, but glaring once recognized.

The polished, silver rosary hanging on the rear view mirror taunts Jensen. It has the nerve to dangle there, calm as can be, while the contents visible from the driver and passenger’s windows prove that the situation inside has been anything but. Darkness prevents Jensen from reading the spines of the thick books haphazardly stacked on the seat. However, he can make out one word and it’s enough for him to stop messing around and get to the fucking point.

At the edge of the lawn, Jensen runs into a major problem.

Lights.

From the looks of the six that he counts, each light hammered into the lawn activates by motion. They’re off now, but Jensen has seen these before. The second someone or something crosses in front, beams of light will propel against the house and straight into the Padalecki’s living room.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

Avoiding the lights seems to be impossible; perched on the far edge of the lawn opposite of Jared’s room, no matter how Jensen approaches that one window, he’ll step in front of a light.

If a light goes off, who knows what the person driving that SUV will be encouraged to do.

Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. Besides, what can he do? What comfort or condolence or empathy can he provide?

Staring at Jared’s dark window, then up at the stars, Jensen exhales and closes his eyes.  

Frigid air enters his lungs like sharpened porcelain—smooth at first, painful in the end.

The second he opens his eyes, a faint flaxen fire ignites behind the window.

Hope stutters inside Jensen’s throat, welling up, reaching his eyes. A flashlight. A flashlight! They didn’t think to take it away from Jared because how harmful could a flashlight be? What could he do with it if the house were under surveillance and he was under lock and key?

Adults are so stupid.

Jensen flashes his phone, standing on the edge of the lawn. He holds it up with the brightness turned as high as it will go. From there, he turns on the flashlight app to his phone. It isn’t as bright as what Jared shines through the window, but Jared can see it and that’s all that matters.

In a splinter of minutes, they send each other fragments of what should be sentences.

Morse code commands attention to detail.

“2mor,” Jared flashes onto the lawn. Tomorrow. “Nine.”

Each message has to be either read or sent backwards; Jared makes it as easy as possible for Jensen to understand and sends them backwards for Jensen to read correctly. Long dashes receive two seconds of light. Dots receive a flash. This was a system created last summer, when they had a sleepover in pup tents outside in Jared’s backyard. His older brother was their chaperone for the night, sleeping in Jared’s tent with him while Jensen had his own thirty feet away. For an hour, they messaged back and forth, until Jared’s brother ruined their fun and took the batteries out of Jared’s flashlight.

Fortunately, he never mentioned to his parents what had annoyed him so much about their sleepover.

Jared’s messages stop for thirty seconds. Jensen’s heart stops along with them.

If the sidewalk beneath him opened up and swallowed him whole, he’d fight to hang onto to the world just to figure out what—what will happen tomorrow at nine?

Bursts of light rush out over blades of evergreen.

“Hosp. Dr. 2mor. Twelve. Pars.”

“Pars?” Jensen frantically shines, cursing the lack of strength on his phone’s light and his failure to bring his own flashlight. What could pars mean? What’s Jared going to the hospital for? To see a doctor, but why? For another test? They couldn’t… he can’t mean… his parents would never.

But would Jared?

“Go,” Jared fires, his flashlight unsteady. “Go now.”

Jensen refuses. There has to be a better way to go about this. He can figure out this maze of motion detectors and climb up the siding by the gutters attached to the side. And if not that, he can think of something else, some other way to whisper to Jared that he just needs to hold on, don’t buy into what his parents are telling him, don’t believe them, don’t do anything less than what’s right for _him_ —

The front door opens; its sound lacerates the neighborhood’s midnight calm.

A shadow stretches across the driveway, laid out morphed into something eerie, exaggerated in size. Voices echo from the front step. Jensen has less than thirty seconds to bail or get caught.

He takes his chance.

Rushing, he flares out his message—the first of its kind.

..

. - ..

\---

. . . –

.

\- . - -

\- - -

. . –

“I love you.”

Aegean darkness hurries him home.

Jensen falls asleep on the pile of his things to pawn.

His parents arrive at six thirty in the morning, bags under their eyes heavier than the ones that carry their camera and sound equipment. The cab driver from the airport receives a hearty tip in exchange for helping them haul eight suitcases inside. Jensen knows this because he wakes up to two things.

“Jensen,” his mother whispers, carding her fingers through his hair.

She isn’t the wrong person to wake up to; she isn’t the right one either.

“For the trouble,” he hears his father say, followed by the distinct flutter of bills being doled out. It used to be one of Jensen’s chores to bring in the luggage after a trip. He’d get paid five dollars a bag, an outrageous amount to give to any snot-nosed nine year old.

With his face plastered against the cold plastic of his XBOX, Jensen could almost laugh at his nine year old self buying trading cards, candy, and cheap soda that gave him the ability to burp ten times in a row on a good swig. But at least his nine year old self was capable of earning money and exchanging it for goods and services. What can he do now? Nothing much has changed in the world since he was nine. These are the realities he tells himself.

What he’d give to be offered those five dollars now.

Though, what his parents offer now seems like something far more valuable.

“Let him sleep,” Donna warns Alan as his footsteps near. “We can talk later.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“Right. So let him sleep.”

Gentle hands pull Jensen off the assortment on his bed, backwards, onto the nest of his blankets, pillows, and mattress. A place where not long ago, he was kissing Jared like it was the end of the world.

The sheets still smell like him.

His parents close his door.

Their voices retreat down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for any typos. posting late at night and about to crash. it's been a good day though. :)
> 
> if y'all celebrated the holiday last week, happy thanksgiving. :D i have a ton of comments and emails to catch up on, so expect replies later today. now to sleep. leave me comments to wake up to! <3


	16. Chapter 16

Jensen wades through dreamless, deep sleep.

It traps him until the sunlight on his face accumulates—piling high like pads of greasy butter. Waking up confused and desperate, the disgraceful flutter of a thought passes through his mind: was it all a dream? What really happened yesterday and how? In what order? Flashing lights pound from the stem of his brain all the way through until they reach the eggshell curvature of his skull, right behind his eyes.

Shoving away the meager collection of items on his bed, Jensen surges against his useless limbs, moving too quick for his body to catch up.

What time is it?

Why didn’t his alarm go off? Why didn’t anyone wake him?

“MOM!”

Tripping over something—could be shoes, clothes, his own feet, who cares—Jensen stumbles out into the hallway, shouting until he receives an answer.

“Jensen!” Donna exhales at the end of the hallway, hand to her chest. “What is it?!”

With a thud, Jensen collides into the wall, however, it does little to stop his momentum or panic. “Nine o’clock—mom it’s ten thirty! Why did you—I have to go!”

Jensen has towered over his mother for a few years now. Despite this, nothing screeches him to a halt quicker than her stepping in front of him, arms crossed over her chest.

“We flew fourteen hours on a last minute flight out of Lima,” his mother announces. “And that’s after _my_ three hour flight from Buenos Aires to meet your father.” Not that Jensen would dare at the moment to mention it to her face, but she does kind of still have the scent of international travel on her. Inching forward, Donna drops her arms, but not before running a hand through her hair. She takes no measures to mask the worry in her expression. Never let them see you sweat—always one of her mottos.

“The three of us,” she continues, “need to talk before you go anywhere.”

“Okay,” Jensen snips, now with his arms crossed over his chest. “Morning mom, nice to see you. Say hi to pops for me. Great, nice chat, gotta go…”

The hint of a smile flashes. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Jensen. I’m sure that everything going on is important—and we’ll get to it in time—but I am the least of your worries.”

“What?”

Socks skitters up the stairs, tail wagging at speeds NASA would love to document. Bright-eyed and fluffy from the brushing he must have received this morning, Socks looks refreshed and ready to face another day of chasing his tail and eating goose shit. At least someone in their house had a good night of sleep and an excellent, relaxing morning.

Donna kneels down and scoops Socks up. Kissy noises appear and Socks yips in glee.

Turning to go back downstairs, dog cradled in her arms, Donna says the last perfect piece of Jensen’s fabulous, fantastic, fun start to his day.

“You still have to talk to your father.”

 

Growing up in the industry, Jensen knows a few things.

A jump cut involves an abrupt, disorienting transition in the middle of a continuous shot. The action advances noticeably in time or cut between two similar scenes. This can be done by accident—a technical flaw or the result of a piss poor editor—or purposefully. On purpose, a jump creates discontinuity for artistic effect. Jump cuts must be used sparingly, with care, and at the right moment.

They require a gentle touch.

“That _fornicator_ ,” Mrs. Padalecki booms, her hoarse voice detonated within the walls of the Ackles’ living room. One manicured finger juts out, harsh as an uppercut to the jaw, pointed at Jensen’s heart. “Blaspheming, corrupting, heathen…”

In their minivan, the Padaleckis showed up at twelve on the dot.

The living room has never felt so cramped before. Mrs. Padalecki takes up most of the room, shouting, chest heaving, gesturing wildly with the force of hellfire behind her. Despite the brittle, croaking quality to each gouging howl, her energy never lessens, never cedes to the terrified expression in her own son’s eyes.

Jared sits on what used to be their favorite couch to have sex on. His parents stand.

Despondent, exhausted, scarlet-rimmed eyes stare only at the verbal onslaught his mother unleashes and the blank hardwood floor. Only once does Jensen make eye contact with Jared; the second they do, Jensen fears nothing else but the look he receives—regret.

Alan didn’t yell at Jensen over breakfast. In fact, he hardly said anything.

He sighed. And sighed again. And sighed some more.

“Ma’am, that is ENOUGH,” Alan shouts. His voice doesn’t command a room like Mrs. Padalecki’s, but after his silence, this burst of force draws attention. “That _fornicator_ —as you so wonderfully put it—is my son! And may I remind you, Mrs. Whatever, that it takes _two_ fornicators to turn a pregnancy test positive!”

Jensen sits on what used to be their second favorite couch to have sex on. Alan stands to his left while Donna holds the right. Jared’s parents stand together, with Jared at the end of the couch.

Conversation turns to mustard gas—poisonous, painful, putrid.

“Your son did this to our boy,” Mrs. Padalecki hisses, chin out, shoulders back. Her pointer finger twists to a new audience—Jared. “He talked Jared into it, he bought these and told him to keep them in his back pocket.” A crinkled condom lands on the coffee table between both families. It yields evidence that Jensen immediately wishes he’d been more careful about. He should have checked Jared’s pockets before they left the park. He should have remembered.

Donna nudges Jensen’s sneaker with her own.

She asks him a question in the most unsteady voice he’s ever heard from her. “Is this true?”

Each pair of eyes in the room lock and load onto Jensen, even the most important one. They all wait for his answer as the condom’s mutilated form lies on the table, curled up at the edges, surely broken.

Tension thrashes in Jensen’s shoulders. The tortuous craving to reach out and touch Jared, ask him what he wants, what he truly wants, overwhelms his senses. How can he sit so close to Jared and be so far? How can one drop of bodily fluid create so much so fast?

He admits the truth. It is his. That’s his brand. He might even have the receipt somewhere for the box that particular condom came from.

Lowly, Alan says his next piece with great care. “Are you accusing my son of raping your son? Because let me tell you this now, Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki, you’re going to want to tread carefully.”

In a relentless roar, Mrs. Padalecki’s chest heaves to lurch out her next speech. The force of her bleating causes the skin on her face to shake and her eyes to bulge out. “Do you think a fifteen year old honor student, top of his class, would willingly fornicate with… with that?” Her finger swivels back to Jensen.

“And our son,” Alan snaps in reply, “would never throw himself on anyone!”

“How do you know that? Are you here to witness what your son does in your absence? Do you have any idea what he’s capable of doing unsupervised? Of his whereabouts? Of the… people he keeps company with? How well,” Mrs. Padalecki’s voice drops, “do you know your son?”

In their silence, Jensen can tell that his parents have lost their footing. They’ve been ambushed.

They only know what Jensen has told them.

For a moment in time, he knows his parents are asking themselves what Mrs. Padalecki has now accused him of doing—could Jensen be capable of…

“Jensen didn’t rape me!”

A new voice peppers the battlefield, weak on the first word, firm on the last. It struggles against a wave of instructions to shut up, but it wins, high-pitched, followed by a flood of sobs. “He didn’t! I wanted it, every time! He bought the condoms because you wouldn’t give me any! I’m sorry, I…”

“Honey, calm down,” Donna blurts out, rushing to pour Jared a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. It seemed like a stupid detail to put out water and glasses for everyone, like people were coming over for tea, but the method unfolds behind the madness. Water sloshes in the glass, passed over from one set of hands to another. Jared accepts the glass but takes no more than a sip.

Now the Padaleckis have lost their footing, ambushed by their own inconvenient truth.

Donna seizes the opportunity to speak without interruption. She doesn’t have to raise her voice or turn her tone sour. “Why don’t we discuss some of our options, instead of tossing around more hurtful accusations? You must have wanted to meet with us for more than this.”

No. The expressions Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki reflect says it perfectly.

Unfazed, Donna continues. She references a thin stack of papers on the coffee table. “We will gladly pay half of what it cost for Jared to visit the doctor today. My husband and I appreciate the professional opinion. We will also pay—in full—for Jared to pursue whatever option he chooses. Though, I would like it if my son had some say in this as well.”

Fists clenched and jaw set, Mrs. Padalecki motions for her husband to fork over the manila folder he’s been holding. He drops it on the coffee table. Jared hiccups, turning away from the table, eyes shut.

Alan picks it up. He holds it so that both Donna and Jensen can see its contents.

Contrast no cinematographer could reproduce gazes up at them.

Against a pitch black background, one faint sliver of ivory presents the curve of the baby’s head.

Words on the border clarify: Padalecki, Jared. M. 15. 15 wks.

Jensen hears his mother gasp. Or is that him?

“Jared.” Donna’s voice, tight and quiet, replaces all the previous yelling. “What do you want to do?”

An answer does not come.

Persistent but gentle, Donna continues, “You have options, Jared. Jensen will support you no matter what.”

“That won’t be…” Mrs. Padalecki starts.

“You’ve had your turn,” Donna quips with a bite. “Now it’s mine.” She turns back to Jared, daring to take another step towards him. Her voice softens once more. “This is about what _you_ want, Jared. No one else. Whatever you want, we’ll make it happen. You can put the baby up for open adoption. You can keep the baby.” Taking a deep breath, Donna says the final option. “Or you can have an abortion.”

Medium shot. Conventional camera shot filmed from a medium distance that focuses on the human figure from the waist up.

The shirt Jared’s wearing has holes in the sleeves.    

It’s one of Jensen’s.

Detail shot. Known as a close-up. A shot taken from a close distance in which the scale of the object becomes magnified, filling the entire frame to focus attention and emphasize its importance. An extreme close-up—XCU—can be used to emphasize further detail.

Mrs. Padalecki’s eyes blaze at the suggestion of an abortion.

“It’s an option!” Donna yells.

“Not in our family!”

“You can’t possibly think… what if your son’s health were… we are not done here!”

“Take a good look at those pictures…”

“We have responsibilities to that baby and your son!” Alan shouts, chasing after the Padaleckis.

They drag Jared first, then eventually shove him to the front, his sneakers skidding on the driveway. His voice tries to float above the waves of adults arguing—and Jensen tries to reach it.

“You had your ‘responsibilities’ to your own son, look at its end. It isn’t your boy who will give birth out of wedlock, it isn’t your boy who will go through this. We are done.”

Donna decides to screw hospitality or manners. She darts in front of the Padaleckis, blocking their minivan. “What option would you want, then?! We’re open to anything. We aren’t trying to lay this all on Jared, but Jensen is the father…”

“Get out of our way.”

“Not until you give us a chance. We may not see eye to eye…”

“This is beyond disagreement!”

“So what?!” Donna screams, her face red. “What was the point of this? For you to hold this all over our heads? Listen to me, Jared, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. No one can force you…”

“Take your hands off of my son!”

“Then just listen to us!”

“There’s nothing more to be discussed. Nothing.”

“So what, you’re going to send your son away so no one sees him pregnant? This isn’t the fifties. We can talk about open adoption, or homeschool, or…”

“You want to talk about options? Options? We’re sending him exactly where he needs to be and what we do with this baby is _our_ business.”

Climax—the highest point of anxiety or tension in a film. The protagonist faces, confronts, and deals with the consequences of all their actions. Or, the protagonist confronts the antagonist in a climactic battle or final engagement. Also called a film’s high point, zenith, apex, or crescendo.

The doors to the minivan open—cavernous and dark. Duffle bags sit on one of the backseats, pillows piled on top, revealing that the next stop is not just around the block. The force of shouting, yelling, and arguing grinds against sinuses and ear drums. Even the sky reflects back a murky cement color. Distress contracts in the frenzied motions of each adult. Only some words make sense, pounded out by breathless, shrieking lungs.

Abomination, God, never, ours.

Stop, can’t, please, don’t.

Every accusation slithers over the pavement, spreading out and searching for a victim. Fanatic, malicious, sinister, fleshless—they take on rotten, blackened forms, racing towards Jensen. This is his fault. His fault. His fault. All of it. And there is nothing he can do. Nothing he can say. Nothing. And now he’s lost it all, lost everything…

Jared breaks free.

One, two, three, four strides over the pavement, across the driveway, and he collides with Jensen.

The accusations fall dead. Tears take their place. Tears and desperate, shaking kisses. For less than a minute, Jared holds Jensen close, gripping onto his shoulders, giving a sharp, firm squeeze for Jensen to pay attention, focus.

“They’re taking me away… Jen, don’t forget me, please… I’m sorry, I can’t…”

Merciless hands rip them apart.

“Let me go, I just… I wanna say g… you said I could…!”

No more flashlights. No more lunch at Ilan’s. No more flowers. No more nose scrunches.

The minivan slams closed.

No more Jared.

Only the picture on Jensen’s nightstand and the copies of the ultrasound on the coffee table.


	17. Chapter 17

Exposure to Hollywood gifts Jensen with certain memories his peers won’t understand until their mid-thirties. Early twenties, if they’re lucky.

He’s been witness to grown men sobbing in the backseat of limousines, wringing their tears out of silk ties and begging for another connection, better networking, a larger budget, or a more capable crew. Adults with confident exteriors typically crumbled at the mention of fiduciary trouble, cosmetic or aesthetic issues, or two terrifying words: contract terminated.  

Hollywood supports itself on the backs of actors and crew who live paycheck to paycheck, gig to gig, ulcer to ulcer—never knowing when work will come along next, if it comes at all.

Stress drove Donna to a series of acupuncture sessions in a spa somewhere in Los Angeles Jensen didn’t bother to remember. He was twelve, and captured the details of it, but not the location; everywhere in L.A. looked the same to him. The same fake people, the same toil of small talk and name dropping, and the same tiny dogs shoved into expensive purses that were also probably fake.

Curiosity drove Jensen to follow his mother to one of the sessions. His mother made him turn around while she undressed and climbed onto what was referred to as the plane of relaxation.

It looked like someone just draped a piece of cloth over an old exam table.

Regardless of his and Alan’s skepticism, Donna proceeded to lie down, giving Jensen permission to turn around again. She might have messed him up in a lot of ways with their nomadic lifestyle, but she could at least report to her own uptight parents that her teenaged son had never seen her naked. That was a lie, of course, because twice he’d walked in on her dressing for events, but those didn’t count. Accidents happened. Acupuncture was happening.

Her specialist strutted in shortly after Jensen made some remark about being on pins and needles.

Rocco was his name, acupuncture was his game.

He introduced himself just like that.

Jensen rolled his eyes as hard as he could at Rocco. What was he? Wannabe soap actor? Wannabe model? Wannabe singer? Or wannabe triple threat—singer, actor, dancer? Or maybe, one of the most interesting and narcissistic creatures of all—wannabe director?

Every question dropped dead to the floor like flies once Rocco shut up and started working.

In awe, Jensen watched his mother’s skin receive needles all over her back and shoulders. Neatly, they stood up in rows. At first it seemed as if the locations were random. Upon closer inspection, Jensen noticed they followed patterns. Each needle had a colored tip, becoming their own miniature flags. Some were spread apart, some were less than half an inch apart.

Donna showed no signs of distress.

As the minutes passed, she only sighed, until her breathing evened out and Jensen knew she was asleep.

“You wanna try?” Rocco offered, twirling a needle in his hand without the slightest hint of effort. It didn’t seem prudent to trust someone named Rocco, who hardly cared about stabbing himself with a needle or the risk of Donna waking up to find him staring at her shirtless son.

Stretched out on his belly, over a row of chairs, Jensen closed his eyes and waited for two things: the feel of Rocco’s hands on him and pain from the needles.

Only one of those things occurred.

There was no pain at all.

No discomfort. No scream-worthy response to twenty needles sticking out from his neck, shoulders, back, and to the edge of Jensen’s ass that remained somewhat uncontroversial should anyone see. Rocco took his time and was smart enough not to talk. Jensen wasn’t interested in understanding pressure points or Eastern medicine or why a thirty-something year old man would pass his time hitting on a twelve year old boy. Unlike a majority of Rocco’s clients, Jensen didn’t care about Rocco’s personal life, his hairstyle, or his pedicured feet.

All he cared about was the lack of pain.

Until about fifteen minutes in.

Across his shoulders, white hot stabbing sensations sunk into his skin, singing delicate nerves. His lungs responded with an excruciating inhale, while the chambers in his heart assaulted the closest ribs with each battering badumbadumdbadumbadum…!

Gasping, Jensen gripped onto the table, flinching underneath the flimsy, threadbare towel that covered questionable areas. Rocco was talking but his voice was distant and unhelpful. Jensen’s senses latched onto the shivers of agony, wrapping his entire consciousness around it. The needles were no longer innocuous; they became barbs bent on slaughtering his nervous system.

Pain, tension, and pressure wrung themselves out of his muscles, flooding the surface of his skin.

Two needles shifted. Almost instantly, relief slashed the throbbing.

Every feeling before that slight shift of pressure points…

This is what it feels like without Jared.

Jensen rages against his parents for hours after the minivan sped off. They had to try—try _something_. Anything. Lawyers. Money. Police.

That evening, Donna delivered the news. Not only did her lawyer turn up squat that they could do, she and Alan were grounding him. No cell phone. No access to either cars. Nothing but taking the bus to school, with the threat of further punishment if he disobeyed by skipping. To reinforce their measurements, they somehow manage to put every single project on hold, and for the first time since Jensen was eight years old, Donna and Alan stay home for more than two days in a row.

Four days without Jared, Jensen gets back at his parents.

He gets back at them, at the Padaleckis, at the education system, and at every pathetic individual in town whispering about him in plain sight. He gets back at everyone the best and only way he knows how: by dropping out of high school.

No one can argue; he’s already sixteen. No one in the office even tries to deter him from doing it.

The only person sad to see him go tells him he’s cutting his future short. Jensen tells Dave to fuck off.

After presenting his parents with the official news and papers of his latest done deal decision, Jensen stalks off to the library. He has a handful of keywords: pregnant, Catholic, teen, convent. Wherever they’re holding Jared, it can’t be anywhere Google can’t find. Surrounding towns and counties have to yield something. Anything.

Jensen plops down in an office chair and swipes his library card through the card reader to access the internet. He isn’t technically supposed to be in the library—there were a few unfortunate misunderstandings between him and one of the librarians about teenagers flipping through nude art books—but not one person inside the brick building has the guts to tell him otherwise. The biddies at the information desk prefer to whisper away amongst themselves. From what Jensen hears, they have their stories half wrong.

For the moment, he leaves them be.

Pregnant. Catholic. Teen. Convent. Local.—Nothing.

Pregnant. Catholic. Convent.—Nothing.

Convent. Catholic. Wedlock.—Nothing.

Convent. Catholic. Pregnant. Adoption.—Nothing.

Scrubbing his face, Jensen exhales. Adding quotation marks does nothing. Expanding his search out to three major cities, the search results only yield open-adoption policies and education. Without any kind of location, how can he begin to look?

Curled up in the computer cubicle, Jensen buries his face in his hands. Nightmares have plagued him without fail every time he has attempted sleep. Twisted, shadowy things lurch from the back of his mind into each of his senses until something forces him awake, nauseous and disoriented. Anxiety never releases its hold either, gnawing at him, repeating the facts over and over again until his thoughts come out warped and malignant. Jared will always, always have been pregnant.

And Jensen will always, always have been the father to this baby.

Tomorrow won’t change it.

Nothing will ever change the fact that somehow, the two of them made something—someone.

“Fuck all of this,” Jensen declares, forcing the computer to shut down and muscling out of the cubicle. Utilizing the library isn’t getting him anywhere.

Without a cell phone, without a car, without anything more to go on except the rush of his blood, he’s going to have to do this the only way he knows how.

 

On foot, Jensen stomps across town.

His sneakers pummel the pebbly sidewalk until they reach a set of apartment buildings the color of stale tortillas. Small children playing on the front steps of the largest building scatter as soon as Jensen’s shoulders and stride come into view. A man with a toddler decides that this is the best moment to scoot over to the park.

It took less favors than Jensen thought it would to wrangle the required information. He traded Jimmy Hutchinson two vintage copies of Playboy Jensen had swiped from the stash box at school, knowing they would come in handy one day. That’s the good thing about teenaged boys—they’re not picky when it comes to porn. Once Jimmy had what he wanted, the wheels were set into motion and a diversion took place long enough for Tyler Johansen to zip into the administrative office and take a picture of one of the files. It was Jimmy’s responsibility to satisfy Tyler’s requirements for the job, but Jensen managed to mutter out something that sounded like a thank you.

If Jensen could have, he would have skipped this all together and hacked into the school’s server to access permanent records. Unfortunately, he himself had never been much for hacking or figuring out the technological side of shit; he was more of a sweet talker, climb through the window kind of operative.

Jared had been the one to take care of what Jensen referred to as the nerdy crap.

Permanent records were in a locked room that would require time, planning, and more than a handful of favors. It also wouldn’t be a solo job and Jensen knew it.

Faculty records, however, were easy marks—out in the open and ripe for the picking.

Apartment 2C doesn’t answer on the first knock.

“I got a pen knife and credit card, don’t make me use them,” Jensen growls through the particle wood door.

The door swings open to reveal Dave standing there in ratty sweatpants and a Pink Floyd shirt.

Arms crossed over his chest, Dave fails at trying to look authoritative. “Does it ever bother you how well you’d fit into juvie? Or prison? Because at this age, you could get tried as an adult.”

Jensen slaps the palm of his left hand onto the door, propping it open and leaning forward. “You’re not my teacher anymore, let’s cut to the chase.”

“You never treated me like a teacher,” Dave snips, standing his ground. “And how’d you find out where I live, anyway? You think that just because you dropped out you…”

“Shut up.”

“Get out.”

“You first.”

“I live here!”

“And I know it!” Jensen storms inside, arms spread. “I don’t care what you’ve got to say about jack shit…”

“You had the highest grade in my class, there was potential! I’m sorry that Jared is pregnant, but you don’t have to throw your future away…”

“Shut.” Stepping forward, dangerously close, Jensen’s words slash through the inch and a half between them. “Up.”

The apartment looks exactly like Jensen imagined it would—the space of a twenty-something male teacher who spends more time grading than cleaning up or organizing. Jensen notes the dirty crates full of manila folders on the bare hardwood floor, stacked haphazardly, with dirty socks hanging on the edges. If Jared saw this, he’d forever forgive the state of Jensen’s room.

Just the thought or mention of Jared makes Jensen’s chest squeeze in a painful way.

“Tell me where they took him.”

“I could lose my job.”

“And I could lose my temper.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“No,” Jensen murmurs, making more space between them. “Never. I’m just saying, that if one day, you find your car egged and the tires slashed that would be unfortunate.”

Dave tilts his head. “I don’t like this side of you.”

Sighing, Jensen shrugs. “No one does.”

“Tell me you’ll reconsider school.”

“I am not telling you shit until you tell me where they took Jared.”

Desperation shrieks in the cavity of Jensen’s chest. His muscles scream; his eyes water; and his mind volleys towards an edge he could never come back from.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” Dave runs a hand through his hair and motions for Jensen to shut the door. “I’ll write it down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you for your patience! i hope you enjoy this chapter. unbeta'ed because i was so excited to put this up. :D


	18. Chapter 18

Four hours away by car.

A million hours away on foot.

Within an arm’s reach in his mind.

Jensen turns the house upside down the second his parents leave for what they say will be a quick trip to Los Angeles. In all the years Jensen has been able to decode his parents’ speak, he knows that a quick trip can be anywhere from three days to two weeks. Along with their note, they’ve left him cash on the kitchen counter, and a reminder to please walk Socks.

“If you find the keys,” Jensen huffs to the ball of fluff, “I will personally make you an entire pack of bacon.”

Socks tilts his head, tongue out, and yips. Jensen muscles him out of the way to continue the search.

No doubt his parents took their own sets of keys so he couldn’t drive either car. But he knows there are spares hidden somewhere in their house. There have to be. Adults lose things constantly. They misplace shit and search, all the while grumbling to themselves, “I swear I had it here…” If only Jensen can remember where _here_ was.

Could his parents have discovered the loose floorboards and created a system like his?

The only person in the world who knows Jensen’s system…

Better not think that way.

“Arf,” Socks chimes in. “Arf, arf.”

“Not now,” Jensen grumbles, his right arm fishing underneath his parents’ dresser. He taps his fingers, hoping to hear evidence of a hollow place. Failing to yield jack shit, his fingertips wrestle with the grooves of each individual floorboard. Meticulous, he tests every imperfection, applying pressure at numerous angles. One board seems to move a fragment of an inch, but it halts the second he tries to pry it up. Not an indentation, depression, or crack responds to his search.

Getting nowhere, Jensen expands his search to obvious places. He finds a few things he doesn’t want to know about his parents and what they do behind closed doors. Under some of his mother’s shirts he finds a squeaky toy and tosses it to Socks so the fur ball will stop hovering at his heels.

Skidding down the hallway, Socks barks, oblivious to Jensen’s increasing desperation.

Jensen flies downstairs in a frenzy. He grabs couch cushions as if they were Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki—barraging them with swears, his fingers digging in, shoulders tensing to send the cushions flying. Lifting, hurling, pelting, pitching, not a single cushion escapes his ambush.

Morton Grove. Fastest way to get there involves taking Route 5—nothing but country road full of gravel and dilapidated barns.

The place isn’t exactly legal, so security keeps a tight watch. Motion sensors and other complicated crap help the rent a cops maintain order. It’s more than a job at school or in the neighborhood or even attempting to hotwire his parents’ cars when he finally admits that they probably took the spare keys with them.

Inside each car, and then under each hood, Jensen runs into one of the problems of his parents owning newer models: they can’t be hotwired without extensive work beyond his knowledge. He could lift something from the eighties or nineties; hell, he could even probably figure out how to wind up a cop car given the right amount of time and tools. All his efforts reward him with are greasy, dirty hands and wildly building anxiety.

Socks perches himself on top of the coffee table, typically off-bounds for him. He rests his head on his newly found squeaky toy, looking up at Jensen and then glancing over to the kitchen.

Sighing, Jensen stomps over a mountain of couch cushions and refills Socks’ food and water bowls.

“You didn’t find the keys,” he mutters, digging around in the fridge. “But I guess someone around here deserves something good.” From a plastic bag of leftovers, Jensen fishes out a slice of bacon.

While Socks munches on his treat, Jensen paces the kitchen, his footsteps heavy and impatient.

He needs a plan. Actually, he needs several plans. But first, he needs a car. Hotwiring one and borrowing it for eight hours will most likely land him in more trouble. If the whole town is talking about him, then it’s no stretch of the imagination to think that the cops would be more than happy to charge him for jaywalking. They’d probably get a real kick out of busting him for grand theft auto.

Older brothers or sisters of his connections are out. They might squeal. It’s too obvious what he needs the car for. And if word gets out that he’s on his way to Morton Grove, getting out there will be useless.

It might even trigger something worse.

The circumstances he’s trapped in pulverize his usual methods. There’s more at stake here than his criminal record or even his own well-being. With good enough lawyers, his parents could probably make a felony disappear and they’d just move to a different spit of land somewhere else or back to Los Angeles. It’s a privilege that stirs up nausea.

Jared doesn’t have that.

All he’s got is his own resolve to hang on.

Dave skimped on the details—purposefully. The place looks like a church. But what church has barbed wire and ten foot fences, disguised by ivy and roses? Half of the lot functions as a church for the individuals locked inside; the other half functions as a hospital.

“Arf!” Tiny nails scratch at the screen door to the backyard. “Arf!”

Exhaling, Jensen unclenches his fists. It won’t help to punch the cabinet or a wall. He lets Socks out, eyes emptily watching Socks’ puffy tail billowing behind him. There has to be an option he hasn’t considered. Some avenue he hasn’t thought of treading down.

Socks pees all over a cluster of Donna’s flowers.

“Inside!” Jensen hollers the second Socks puts his leg down. “Home! C’mon, get your furry ass inside!”

Shutting the screen door, Jensen races to the fridge and tosses Socks another piece of bacon.

 

Jensen doesn’t steal.

He borrows.

Sometimes, he’s had to borrow a few things longer than he had originally anticipated. Like that one time he borrowed a golf cart from a studio lot and did donuts on an empty set until he threw up. It took time to clean out the vomit from the golf cart, so he returned it kind of sort of late. But the point was that he returned it and he returned it sans vomit. He also had to borrow a few bottles of Evian water from the top billed actor on a set of some god awful soap opera, but Jensen figured the incident could be good reference material for method acting. The guy could use it.

With his one hope of transportation in place, Jensen begins to plan shit out in his head, grabbing as many supplies as he can stuff into his backpack. He stuffs two cartons of cigarettes into the front pocket, having unearthed them from their hiding place in the second floorboard on the right from his nightstand. Standing, he looks around his room and finds a crumpled pair of boxers covered in dust. His parents never come in here and Jared knew why this particular piece of underwear could never be moved.

X marks the spot. Jensen pockets the contents of this floorboard: a pocket knife, mace, and his lock picks.

Dressed in black from head to toe, he puts on the final piece of his outfit. His black, fingerless gloves fit perfectly. A pair with fingers rests in his backpack, but he hates driving with them on.

Black jeans, black boots, black shirt, black leather jacket Alan was going to throw out but Jensen rescued it and patched up the shoulders. It’s not camouflage, and he sneers at himself as he walks up to the hallway mirror. He borrows his mother’s impromptu makeup kit for sets and puts on his face. One of the best makeup artists in the industry used to let Jensen watch her work whenever his parents dragged him on set. He was probably eight or nine years old when he’d sit in the second chair, listening to her and a string of actors talk shit, swap gossip, and argue over colors.

Attentive, Jensen managed to learn a few things. He replicated one of her masterpieces in a school once; he showed up with bruises, scars, and burn marks all over his face for the fifth grade nativity play.

Donna had to show two police officers and a hoard of teachers that it was makeup. Jensen can’t remember how he was punished, but it doesn’t matter now. His techniques could use some work, but he’s still got a good touch. Just a faint hint of a scar or two here, accenting the crinkles around his eyes there, and a dab of dark eyeshadow under his eyes. He goes from sixteen to somewhere in his mid-twenties without the hassle of growing up.

Jensen rushes out, slinging his backpack on, and plotting his route to town. He’ll stay off main roads, which will take twice as long on foot, but at least no one will spot him. It’s three, which means school has let out and it’s possible he can blend in with his ex-classmates walking home. He can’t run—it’ll give him away quick—but his footsteps hit pavement with renewed confidence.

Hopping a fence or two along the way, he weaves through the neighborhood.

To get a good view of inside the shop, Jensen climbs up a fire escape to peer in. Three customers, all of them mothers who know his face. Fuck.

He goes for his second option.

In the alleyway, Jensen knocks on the shop’s backdoor. When no one answers, he knocks harder, persistent.

“Hey, c’mon lady, delivery!” he barks, keeping his voice gruff.

Ripping the door open, Fanny shouts, “The hell is your problem?! Deliveries ain’t until… holy fuck.”

Jensen presses a finger to his lips, then starts to spill. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time to explain…”

“Like shit you don’t,” Fanny hisses and looks over her shoulder at the shop. For the moment, things are fine. But she reels back and unleashes quiet, tempestuous fury. “You know who I got in there? My god, how stupid are you, Jensen? I told you to be careful. I told you not to fuck this up and what do you do? The total opposite. Whatever you’re doing, turn around and do it on your own.”

He can’t intimidate, threaten, or play her like Dave.

“Stop,” he blurts out, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Please, just… listen to me for a minute.”

Fanny’s eyes narrow and her lips purse. She yells in his face. “One minute, ladies, I just got a last minute orchid shipment! Damn delivery drivers never give two craps that I’ve got a business to run.” Her pitch drops. “I know what you’re doing and I know where you’re going, Jensen. I’m fixing to smack you back to last week.”

Inhaling sharply, Jensen clings to Fanny on instinct. “You _know_?”

Pain surfaces in the pools of her tired, violet eyes. She looks away for a split second; it’s long enough for Jensen not to press for more information. He already knows the address, the route, and the basics of what to expect.

“We were careful,” Jensen mumbles. “I swear. I know I’m a piece of shit in other ways but not in that sense.”

Laughing coldly, Fanny waves his hands off her. “That’s what they all say. Now you’re just one of them.”

“No,” he vows, speaking with conviction exhumed from the pile of guilt and anxiety in his gut. “I’m not.”

What hurts more?

Her original accusation or the disbelief in her eyes?

He stuffs that sting back down with everything else and begins to beg her for the Scrambler. He could hot wire it easy, but he doesn’t want to steal from her. It’s sitting where it was, under its tarp, just waiting there for his hands to bring it back to life.

The first answer he sees about to fall from her lips incites a rupture in his chest. Jensen closes his eyes, pained, exhausting his last option.

“You do the right thing, do you hear me?” Fanny grumbles, stepping towards the shop.

“And what is that, exactly?!” Jensen snaps. “What is ‘the right thing’ here?!”

From behind her wire screen door, Fanny enlightens him.

“Whatever _Jared_ wants to do.”

She heads back into the shop.

Jensen stands in the alley, shoulders hunched, a storm raging inside him.

“Ladies, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to send you packing. This delivery man doesn’t know shit from dirt and he’s got three orders screwed up, including the lilies for your piece, Claire. Oh, don’t you worry, when I get through with him, he won’t know what’s left or right. Yes, right now, terribly sorry, but as soon as I sort this out, I’ve got to get on the horn and call Greg for a new order and who knows how long _that_ will take. No, you’re best going and being spared from the language I’m gonna use. See you two tomorrow and I’ll be calling you, Mrs. Rohloff. Thank you.”

Two seconds later, a set of keys hits Jensen in the face.

“There’s no time to teach you more than the basics,” Fanny mutters, rolling up her sleeves and taking off her work apron. She pulls the tarp off the Scrambler in one fluid motion, putting her a hand on her hip.

“Well? You gonna get your ass on it or not?”

Two pointers in and Jensen crashes to the ground, face to the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay for some time to write! the holidays were awful this year. i was just nonstop running and working. but i'm recovering! glad to have a chapter of these two. :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love With You" and "Kentucky Rain" by Tom Waits later in this chapter.

Last summer, Donna and Alan dragged Jensen to Vegas for what was supposed to be a family vacation.

It was on that vacation—where he dodged his parents’ supervision ten minutes after checking into the Bellagio—that Jensen witnessed one of the most remarkable, literally tremendous acts ever put together.

He was known as Fat Elvis.

Larger than life, five hundred pounds, decked out in white leather and gold fringe, and surrounded by a line of gorgeous, plumed women. Fat Elvis delivered—he sang renditions of Elvis songs that made the most diehard fan in the audience, a twenty something year old man covered in Elvis themed tattoos, bawl like a baby. There were lights flashing, drinks clinking, and people cheering, with Fat Elvis in the center of it all.

Jensen’s first ten attempts to ride the Scramble may just top Fat Elvis in terms of entertainment.

He wipes out every single time.

And he doesn’t just fall over. That would be too fucking easy.

By the time Fanny gives up on him and prepares to send him off, he’s covered in scrapes and bruises. In the span of thirty minutes—within the perimeter of the alley—Jensen manages to not break a limb. Fanny tells him not to hold his breath for the same happening on the course of his four hour trip.

She digs out an old helmet from her backroom and unceremoniously plops it on his head.

“You look the part,” she mutters, dusting off his shoulders. “But you can’t drive worth a damn.”

“I drive cars just fine!”

“Does this look like a car to you?”

“You could lend me your car so I don’t potentially become roadkill.”

“…do you even know what your fool ass is gonna do when you get there? Have you thought that part out yet?” Hands on her hips, Fanny takes no issues with lecturing Jensen to hell and back. “This isn’t detention, kid. Money’s involved. Parents pay thousands to have this place cover shit up.” She zips up Jensen’s jacket with more force than necessary and looks at him directly. “What’s your plan?”

He tells her half of it.

Then he leaves her, shaking her head and turning back inside the shop.

Jensen makes it a mile out of town before he takes his first spill. He pockets a rock with his blood on it as a souvenir.

Even Fat Elvis can’t boast that kind of merchandise.

 

The Scrambler handles the road just fine.

It’s Jensen who can’t handle the Scrambler or the road. Gripping each handle, he finds himself closing his eyes right before wiping out. And just like his seven year old self learning how to ride a bicycle, he screams the second he crawls and claws his way back onto his feet. Hand clutch. Spark advance. Gas tank. Engine. Exhaust pipes. Foot gear shift. Starter pedal. Oil tank. Rear-wheel shock absorber. Muffler. Brake rod. Fender. The mix of familiar and unfamiliar mash around in his head until they become as thick as his blood drying on leather.

Every few miles, he careens to a stop and spits out amber.

Halfway through the journey he has mud and blood on his face. Actual scars line his face from the impact of gravel and cement; despite his gloves, the palms of his hands become howling, open, and tenderized. Not for two seconds does he ride without the helmet, but it too begins to betray him. Sweat mixes in with the blood on his face, all of it rendering into something stifling and raw.

On an open stretch of rural road—idyllic, serene, pastoral and all that crap—the Scrambler tosses Jensen off, forcing him to chew on a mouthful of roadside dirt.

As the miles agonizingly unfold, no part of the journey becomes Jensen’s original dream about taking a badass bike across country. Although the leather jacket provides a tough layer between him and the pavement, when he’s not spinning out he’s sweating in it. Despite the helmet, bugs still manage to get through and fly into his mouth or up his nose. The first four or five times that happened, he swerved and immediately lost his shit. Hour two and a half sees the beginning of a new relationship with the corpses of insects in his face; he has no more fucks to give.

Hunched over, surely mortally wounded, and chaffing like a motherfucker, Jensen pulls over halfway into his trip. He had estimated four hours by car; while the Scrambler can go as fast as a car, Jensen can’t drive it above fifty-five without shaking and spilling a mile later.

Incredibly scientific calculations put his time at closer to six hours—five if he can stop riding like a baby.

The sun sets without comment or acknowledgement. Gradients paint the sky, reflecting what must be a pretty picture for fuckers who have time to wax poetic on that type of crap. Jensen doesn’t care. He keeps his focus on the Scramble, pleading with her to let him in on the language. If she’d just cut him a break and translate one or two things, maybe his crotch wouldn’t feel like it was about to detonate.

Sprawling to another harsh stop, Jensen screams out his frustration while wearing his helmet.

Then he yanks the helmet off and blasts every single scream once more, out into the open, dark countryside, fields of grass and shrubs swallowing them up.

Loneliness hooks his legs back onto the Scrambler.

Anxiety bears down on the starter pedal.

No phone, no car, and nothing but the hundred dollars of cash in his wallet and the supplies in his backpack. Hurled out into murky curves of road, Jensen skids, resists, and staves off another wipe out. Beneath and all around him, the Scrambler bucks.

Leaning left to bend right, Jensen wields his own weight against her.

They parry, thrash, and wrestle forward, blasting past broken tractors and ramshackle farms that carve mammoth silhouettes in the evening sky.

In these solitary hours, two trucks run him off the road. The Scrambler recoils against his inability to fight for his space; she swerves towards the trucks, volleying closer, hooking him onto fear until his mouth is full of it—until he stops screaming, stops squeezing his eyes shut, and stops struggling when she knows better.

All the while, Jensen knows that _this_ is nothing.

Passing through towns dotting Route 5, he avoids attention and drives speed limit. Mile after mile, spill after spill, Jensen answers the Scrambler. He heaves her off of gravel, grips his bare hands onto her sleek handles, and rides her in a holler.

Five and a half hours.

She murmurs underneath him as they slow to a smooth stop. He’s not fool enough to park right out front, and he knows better than to stick around gawking like an idiot. But he has to see the place for himself; for all the details gathered and gifted to him, people miss shit all the time. Adults don’t look for weaknesses in a security system if they respect it in the first place. They don’t notice that a recent rain created a slight dip in the soil at the base of the monstrous fence.

With the Scrambler hidden some length away, Jensen crawls over to the cruel iron barrier. On his hands and knees, working in darkness, he wrenches open the wound, gutting and gouging in desperation. Like Dave said, roses spider up and down the iron fencing, blooming suspended and slightly warped. Jensen hacks at a thick, thorny cluster of them with his pocket knife. A thorn buries itself under his fingernail; Jensen muffles his yelp and bites at it—prying it out with his teeth.

He pushes top soil back into the hole and arranges roses around the bottom, threading this all together to make this patch of fencing appear completely untouched.

On his feet, he listens for any sign that his movements have set off alarms.

Nothing.

Running to the Scrambler, Jensen remembers as much as he can, hoping it won’t be necessary. He can touch the roses and the ground around it, but he can’t touch the fence. Night shift includes three guards up front by the entrance, and two on watch at the back. The sides remain open, however, they also remain dangerous. Any threat to the fence and both sets of Paul Blart wannabes will waddle over.

Jensen walks alongside the Scrambler for half a mile in a ditch on the side of the road. He tramples through mud, roadkill, and the remnants of belongings that must have been discarded upon arrival to this place.

A single grimy sneaker lies on the slope of the ditch. Jensen doesn’t touch it.

He keeps his head down and pushes towards his second destination: Rose’s Bar.

 

Six months ago, on a search for money, Jensen searched through Alan’s closet.

Jared was there. He was opposed to the original plan, but caved once Jensen dug out something ancient.

“Junk,” Jensen declared and shoved it aside.

“No way,” Jared gasped and grabbed it back. “Your dad still has one of these?”

Jensen remembers how he stared at Jared. “Really? Coming from the guy whose family gathers ‘round a radio on a nightly basis?”

Nothing could stop Jared from cradling the record player close, not even the layer of dust on the cover or the musky, dank smell to it. Ignoring any and all of Jensen’s attempts to continue the search for money to order a pizza, Jared rooted through the closet, finding an outlet. It was fortunate for him that the record player had its own speakers, saving him the process of hooking them up to anything else. The lid creaked open and Jared checked the needle—still good.

Deep in the cavern of the closet alongside Jensen, Jared pushed around luggage, boxes of scripts and shit from sets, scrunching his nose when Jensen didn’t immediately offer to help yank out one specific, very heavy crate.

“They’re gross as fuck.”

“They’re well-loved.”

“He let them rot.”

“…maybe he just didn’t know how to store them.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“Some of these are rare—oh my god, he’s got Closing Time.”

“You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here?”

“Not a scratch on it. Move.”

“Why should _I_ move?!”

“Because you’re in my way!”

“Oh, thanks, nice of you to put your ass in my face.”

“And it would do you well to thank me for it, jerk.”

“Yeah, sure, but _not_ in Alan’s closet. I saw bellbottoms back there, Jay. I shit you not.”

Jared looked at that record the way he looked at an A+ on one of his tests. He didn’t care about the tattered edges of the album cover, he ran his fingers over it, shook his head, and put the record on the table. The needle dropped, creating a soft pop and a crackle. Alan’s suits and ties acted as a canopy. The first few seconds of music filtered out scratchy, like a wheeze. It was difficult to hear the whisper of a guitar under the needle skimming across the grooves. Then there was a man’s voice, distant and haunting, counting out, “One, two, three four.”

On each side of the turntable, they sat there in the closet, listening to a voice as grainy and gravely as the device it played on. Distinctive and pained, the man sang in tones that altered on a dime; heavy and balmy one second, breathy and vulnerable the next. The tempo took its time, in no hurry or rush, allowing the exquisite fizz from the needle and record to build up, creating a nest for the music.

“Well the night does funny things inside a man. These old tom-cat feelings you don’t understand. Well I turn around to look at you, you light a cigarette. I wish I had the guts to bum one, but we’ve never met. And I hope that I don’t fall in love with you.”

Jensen can’t remember how long it took him to realize Jared was singing along.

Hushed, he murmured the lyrics slightly off-tempo, so they came out at a pace like a prayer.

“I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late, you’d like some company… Now it’s closing time, the music’s fading out. Last call for drinks, I’ll have another stout. Well I turn around to look at you, you’re nowhere to be found. I search the place for your lost face, guess I’ll have another round.”

Breathing in deep, eyes closed, Jared exhaled the last line.

“And I think that I just fell in love with you.”

Jared reached over and took the needle off the record before the next song could play. Even in the inky darkness of the closet, Jensen could tell Jared was blushing something terrible.

He grabbed Jared’s hand and placed it on his own cheek.

Maybe he was blushing too.

 

Rose’s is nothing like that song.

And if Jensen doesn’t pull his shit together, he’s gonna end up screaming Kentucky Avenue.

In the parking lot, Jensen ignores the shaking of his hands and uses one of the bottles of water he brought with to wash the blood and sweat from his face. Standing under a smashed light post, he doesn’t waste a drop. The water runs off of him the same color as the bricks that make up the bar. Shattered copper and emerald bottles crunch under his boots as he hauls the Scrambler to the back. She deflects every prickly threat to her tires, rougher than their attempts, capable of making it unharmed to the drippy, pathetic back of house.

Greasy fossilzed crates form a wall beside the dumpster Jensen tucks the Scrambler behind.

He’d punch a crate.

But his nail is still bleeding on his right hand and he can’t swing for beans with his left.

And he knows better than to sit on one. Plopped down on the uneven cement, Jensen tilts his head back, his body thumping against the dumpster. He should probably be careful not to sit on broken glass.

“Fuck,” he croaks, closing his eyes.

Without Jared, without a turntable, Kentucky Avenue plays, a treacherous, damned ghost of piano scales and violent, angry wails.

What did he need the water for?

Grabbing his left arm with his right hand, Jensen curls up, muffling yet another sound.

_I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials in my arm. And I’ll show you how to sneak up on the roof of the drugstore. I’ll steal a hacksaw from my dad and cut the braces off your legs. And we’ll bury them tonight out in the cornfield. Just put a church key in your pocket, we’ll hop that freight train in the hall._

This has to work.

_We’ll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall._

God, this has to work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't remember how i happened upon Tom Waits, but i'm forever grateful. i can only listen to a little at a time and these two songs were perfect for this fic. if you can, you should listen to them. 
> 
> thank you for reading! i hope you're enjoying what was supposed to be a one-day, 5k word fic lol. <3
> 
> here's to a new year of writing for the spn fandom! :D


	20. Chapter 20

No one in town will sell Jensen a bottle of booze.

And they definitely wouldn’t sell him four.

Sacred bottles glisten—turpentine rubies and emeralds—on the depressed shelves of Rose’s. The liquor levels out mortgages, banks, and holy institutions of employment and responsibilities. No music. No flashy lights. No talk of who’s alive this week and whose pink slip’s in the mail next week.

Shoulders worthy of Sandburg poems shield a singular front of house.

A Colonel of Cuervo with a rag in one hand and a glass in the other.

A General of Jack in studs, leather, and a red bandana on her thick, right bicep.

General of Rose’s—Rose.

Raven wing-tipped eyes appraise the newcomer like a pig arriving at the slaughterhouse. The curve of her upper lip determines whether this offering gets stuck in the throat once and only once, sprays of its blood showering layers of its predecessors, or if it warrants an ending much faster.

Slit from belly to the pulsing river of his jugular, Jensen receives acceptance.

Time doesn’t wait for relief or celebration. The first part done, Jensen grunts at the offer of his own gem, slid over the bar without a label or cap. His breath smells like gasoline. More than the General’s eyes rest on his throat in the first three pulls. No newcomer, no fucking greenhorn, Jensen swallows the riot and the slosh. Fake ID’s aren’t worth shit if there’s nothing to back them up. A place like Rose’s would never card; prey walks in, prey gets hunted out quick.

Ten. That’s his preliminary count. Rose would be one shot short from the devil if she doesn’t have a man in the back—or a rifle under the bar. Company isn’t muscle from mills or quarries or caves. But they match Jensen in height, every one of them, and drinking time started hours ago.

Muscles in Jensen’s shoulders scream in his position. His ribs require rest. The raw palms of his hands stick against the bar. Energy from barreled reserves rebuff these complaints and refocus. Composure is everything. Expression could betray him. Concentrate. Glean. Empty the bottle in hand and watch. Wait for the reveal. Allow the tension to build—don’t give anything away, not yet. More or less in the middle, three sit on his left and five on the right, with two near the door.

This has to work.

Once, it worked without even trying.

Now it’s his turn to use it.

Unfurled from the cover of his sleeve, Jensen spreads out the dynamite. His lungs squeeze and ribs twinge. This has to work. Because the only problem with his dynamite is the lack of control in lighting it. He doesn’t hold the matches here—they do.

It was hell painting in the parking lot. He had to take some care and make it look good.

Dynamite Red is what the bottle read. OPI. Two coats.

Eternities shriek around his barstool. What if they don’t take the bait? What if they’ve put away their matches? What if these aren’t the same kind of rural people that hauled him out, beat him up, and told him to go back to Hollywood? What if he placed his chips on red when black was the better…

On Jensen’s left, a corporal intends to pitch the first throw.

His flat, coarse palm charges towards Jensen’s shoulder, meant to shove and knock the newest pig off its stool and away from the trough.

But Jensen doesn’t belong here.

Not with these assholes.

Triggered, Jensen ignites. His hands snap against the bar, biceps tightening, working overtime to propel himself backwards. Dodging the shove, Jensen doesn’t have time to witness it assail the bar fly that had been on his right. His legs twist the stool and hips match the pace, allowing him to walk away from the stool without broken ankle or pulled muscle.

And one by one, the flies fall like dominoes.

Rose’s explodes.

Fist after fist after jaw after eye after gut after throat after grabbing a stool and cracking it on the bar in an attempt to get to Jensen… Bottles burst into fragments, scattering on the floor like roaches. Bone meeting bone sounds out louder than the General’s warning. Jensen throws three rights and one left. He catches a pummel to the gut, winding him, forcing bile up his throat like toothpaste being wrung from the tube.  

Pain latches onto his ribs, burying its teeth and constricting until he folds. Crumpled.

Hands thump over his chest. In one swift motion, Jensen ascends from the floor to the bar again. Harsh shouts and furious barks batter against his ears. One. One guy’s got him. Just. One. The rest hover. This is just one. Just.

There’s no way Jensen can match the uppercut of a forty-five year old farmer; but he wore these boots for more than just because they look good.

Jensen rams his steel-toed boot into the guy’s groin.

Running for the exit, Jensen stuffs his jacket with four bottles of whatever he can grab. He makes it half a mile down the road when the first sirens headed for Rose’s wail.

Gunning it, Jensen laughs.

 

Insanity or passion fuel Jensen’s efforts to dig another hole on the opposite side of the compound.

After the third thorn causes his hands to bleed, he decides that it’s probably a good mix of the two. Scratches and bruises and a possibly fractured rib can be dealt with later. Forcing the ground to open underneath his fingers provides an outlet for a mixture of shit: anxiety, anger, and something else he refuses to gift a name. He won’t say it. He felt it in Rose’s and that was fine. But this is where he repays the Padaleckis for their trouble.

Drowned in afflicted earth, dynamite red takes on a shade to match the sky above: a beastly, spidery indigo.

Midnight materializes, murky in the painful grottos of his sinuses. Time takes on the form of an oracle—prophetic, high, and cruel. Jensen treads the horizon, hands guiding the Scrambler. He keeps his shadow close. The form he cuts on the horizon emerges like a banshee.

Barbed wire on the top. Wired fencing and roses twisting, looping, threading inside. Two guards in the front and two in the back, from the visuals Jensen snatches. No dogs. Stakes of light driven in the ground follow a pattern: four up front, all pointing at the building. Four of the six in back point at the east side of the building, which also has the least amount of windows. Why concentrate there? Why not on the north or south sides, where there are rows of windows?

The Scrambler waits in the grass without her kickstand. She blends into the blades like a snake. Exhaling, Jensen preps, lying beside her, on his stomach. Not every sound receives his attention. He sends commands to his hands to stop shaking and to his lungs to cease their complaining.

All the east side floodlights point a cluster of three windows for a reason: that’s where they sleep.

Stuffing his backpack under the Scrambler, Jensen runs through his list. Bottles. Check. Matches. Check. Flashlight. Check. There isn't any need for the Marlboros. Not that kind of situation.

And last, but not least, a really fucking heavy rock.

Back at the original hole, not a clump of dirt appears disturbed, and none of the roses have moved. Jensen pokes the roses out of the fencing with a stick. They’ll fall in his way, but he’d rather not risk setting something off by grabbing them. Working with the rock, he scoops out the first layer of soil he packed in before leaving last time. He wipes his forehead with the back of his right hand and continues. His motions remain in sync with the sounds of boots that are not his own. Tunneling further, leaving the earth gouged wider, Jensen’s muscles signal his limit.

This has to work.

One by one, each bottle of liquor slides under the fence and into the compound.

For thirty seconds, Jensen lies in the dirt, unmoving and waiting.

Nothing.

He uses the stick again to push the bottles up the sloped edge and away from the hole. This is either his best plan or his worst. At least, he thinks to himself, crawling on his belly, there aren’t any worms. Trenches have more space than this hole. For a second, Jensen thinks his jeans snag on the fence. Freezing, he listens, wanting to scream at his heart to shut up for a second.

Nothing.

He’s in.

Victory meets a short end. One guard from the front makes their way from the front to the back. Is it because of him? Was he too loud? Did he trip something else? Anxiety grazes at the skin from his chin down to his collar. With every pound of boot against the lawn, Jensen’s muscles tighten in response.

Nothing.

This episode works in his benefit. Whatever the reason for leaving their post, the guard left his partner alone up front. Instead of dodging two, Jensen only needs to evade one. Piece of cake. Piece of chocolate cake with motherfucking sprinkles.

The one element Jensen hadn’t entirely planned for was the moment when his plan kicked into high gear. He hadn’t expected it to start so noiseless, without much, if any transition from breaking in to raising hell.

There’s no soundtrack, no special effects, and no green screen.

Jensen races for the front. He is nothing more than a teenage boy wearing a leather jacket. Rounding the corner of the compound, he slows to a walk. Half-filled bottles slosh against his chest. He spots the second front guard some hundred feet away. Thirty seconds. Maybe less. That’s all Jensen has before the shape of his jacket looks wrong or his profile doesn’t match expectations.

At twenty seconds, he pitches the first part of his plan straight into the nearest window.

Goodbye, fucking heavy rock.

As if conducting an orchestra, Jensen raises his hands in joy of the resulting sounds.

_Crash!_

_Bang!_

_Boom!_

Allegro! Fortissimo! And whatever other words dead guys with wigs use to describe music! It’s the fucking 1812 Overture, complete with canons, bells, and Jensen at the helm of it all. Blasting, earsplitting alarms shriek, followed by the scorching flare of floodlights. Whips of white light the color of bleached bones wrap around Jensen’s ankles. But he doesn’t care. He gives zero fucks.

In a moment, the rock through the window will be the least of anyone’s problems.

Longer than any of the guards expect, Jensen remains near the scene of the crime. His hands work in perfect time and rhythm with the frantic music playing at full volume in his head. Tchaikovsky would be _proud_.

Solid in his left hand, Jensen cradles one of the four prepared bottles.

The match in his right hand kisses the side of his boot with a hiss.

He needed the booze from Rose’s to soak the rags stuffed into each bottle. But once that was done he poured it all out and replaced it with something even better—gasoline. All it took was his pocketknife to jack open the gas tanks on two of the trucks in the parking lot and a rubber hose. Of course, he didn’t need all the gas, but he figured it might help to drain them in case anyone felt like following.

Clean, beautiful fire seizes the rag.

Jensen hurls the burning bottle into the broken window. As it hits the floor, the Molotov cocktail ignites, sending glass and flames flying.

What was only property damage becomes a full-fledged emergency.

Shock from the wall of howling, golden fire fends off the guards long enough for Jensen to pursue his next target. Four bottles. Three distractions. The second bottle obliterates another window, this one on the second floor. Fire alarms screech and sprinklers kick into action—all according to plan.

For a compound this size, the evacuation time is impressive.

Smoke and salt from sweat pricks at Jensen’s eyes. His boots barely touch the ground, running from the front of the building now consumed in flames. Vengeance and satisfaction churn through his muscles, joints, and limbs. The floodlights, once his enemy, become his friends. They make it easy to spot what he wants in a confused, frightened crowd.

Two guards. Ten nuns. Five staff.

Twenty pairs of young, bewildered eyes.

Jensen only has to lock eyes with one.

He shines the flashlight twice, pointing left. Staff shove to form a barrier against the kids, all of them crowding left.

Jared darts to the right.

The third bottle contains no rag. Jensen uncorks it with his teeth and overturns it. As he runs past the crowd, gasoline sprays out on the lawn, mostly in a line. Another match. Another blazing wall.

Pelting the ground underneath, Jensen’s boots catch up to Jared’s sneakers.

Not a word.

Not one pause in sprinting. Not one moment for their hands to touch or shoulders to bump.

Fire reflects back in Jensen’s eyes. They’re not out of the clear. Just a little further… a few more steps…

Without feeling or pity, the guards advance, shouting to each other to cut them off. For the first time tonight, Jensen feels how cold it is outside, a fierce chill charging down his chest and piercing his spine. It could be because he catches one glimpse of the figure next to him wearing paper-thin, white hospital clothes.  

This is right.

This is so right.

A sadistic streak stirs inside Jensen. One bottle left. Better make it good. He gives the signal used for evading teachers, administrators, and other nosy adults during a raid—rock, paper, scissors. Jared breaks to the left. Jensen breaks to the right. They crisscross and loop, ambushing those who follow and heading straight for them. It’s a game of chicken. Jensen’s legs carry him, sturdy and sure. He lets out an inhuman whoop, holding up the last bottle and a lighter.

Hounds of hell couldn’t catch him—or Jared.

Careful with his aim, Jensen pitches the last bottle, this one with the least amount of gasoline.

It lands five feet from the circle of evacuees.

Savage chaos unleashes enough confusion and misdirection for Jensen to grab Jared by the arm and pull him in the opposite direction. Back. Back this way.

They don’t run off alone, but they have a head start.

At the hole, Jensen shouts for Jared not to touch the fence.

“It’s not big enough!”

“It is! Don’t worry!”

“No, Jen… the…”

“Go!”

“I won’t fit!”

“You will, Jay! Just go!”

“What about you?!”

Footsteps batter the earth, thundering closer and closer by the second.

Jared claws at the ground, wedging himself into the hole, awkward and slow. Panicking, Jensen shoves at him from behind. Their desperate cries ring in his ears. Too small. Should have dug the hole bigger. Should have replaced the condom. Should have asked Jared at the park to empty his pockets after they had sex. Should have left Jared alone. Should have…

“RUN!” Jensen uses the last of his voice. “TEN STEPS!”

Ten steps to the Scrambler.

Ten seconds until the guards reach the fence. Jensen struggles, muscles seizing, uncooperative and traitorous. He can’t get in the right angle. His feet refuse to push.

Hands grab Jensen’s arms.

In one rough motion, Jared lugs Jensen out of the pit. The Scrambler roars to life. There’s only one thing different about her this time.

Jared drives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience! <3 
> 
> comments are love. :D


	21. Chapter 21

The scene is quieter that Jensen expects.

For the first few minutes, he hears nothing. Feels nothing. Sees nothing.

And for one small stretch of blurred, distorted road, he fears nothing.

Keep her shiny side up.

Hammer down.

Life ignites from the 865cc eight-valve engine.

Thrust forward. More torque. Low revs.

She’s the kind of machine meant for escape.

Thundering.

Slaughtering.

Commanding the road like an Empress.

Tubular steel, twin cradle frame, 36/40 spoke tires.

High-level stainless steel headers and chrome silencers.

Obsessed with the road.

She owns it.

She destroys it.

Because her driver ain’t no squid.

Cherry toppers clock in. Cops. At least three cars.

Stupidly quick. Underdressed. Imminently dead.

Oil couldn’t be darker than the road ahead of them.

Corn stalks serve as imminent wardens.

The donut patrol advances.

They’re closing in fast.

Are they at max?

Out of gas?

Has Jared changed his mind?

Or lost it?

Hounding, one cop car catches up.

Jensen could spit on it.

Siren lights throttle her.

Closer and closer.

The long arm of the law…

Extending in an ambush…

The noose is out…

Doesn’t Jared know how close they are?

How few the inches?

They don’t have very long.

Closer.

Closer...

Faster!

If they don’t speed up, this’ll be the end.

There was one and only one guy before Jensen. His name was Thad. He was as much of a douchebag as his name suggests. On his gleaming Velocette Viper, he road into town with ten bucks to his name, a tattoo on his bare bicep that said, “BABY,” and a thing for young, naïve, boys. The first glimpse he got of Jared was at the town’s public pool—all red swim shorts and long, lean legs. Jared asked him who baby was, and good old Thad replied, “You are, baby.” He promised Jared freedom. A life on the road. The ability to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted without consequence. All Jared had to do was let Thad see exactly what was under those cute little swim shorts. Jared laughed every time Thad made his pitch; he laughed and smiled and flipped his hair and quoted from the Bible and asked Thad to explain how motorcycles worked. Was Thad the next James Dean? Did Thad’s muscles grow before or after he starting driving the Viper? What did a 349cc engine mean? Thad ate it up. Every chance he got, he snuck Jared away from the pool and took him for a ride. And one day, the day Jared wore his swim shorts a little too low, Thad asked Jared if he wanted to drive. “Oh. Oh… are you sure? Me? Drive? I wouldn’t even know how.” “Ah, ain’t no thing. I’ll show you.” “You’ll be behind me, right? You won’t let go?” Thad wouldn’t have let go if lightning had struck him. From June to August, he got to strut his stuff and show off. He showed Jared how to burnout, doughnut, stitch a line, dodge tar snakes, and sweep down twisties. They rode every day in the sun—Jared getting tan and Thad’s erection bumping and grinding against Jared’s ass. The afternoon arrived when Thad couldn’t stand those red swim shorts anymore. He had to know. Had to see. Had to do everything to it that he had been creaming his jeans over at night every night for those two months. Out on the road, he peeked and groped and slid a hand up Jared’s thigh. Second mistake. Because Jared can speak to scoots; their language is his language is the language of smooth pavement without traffic on an endless horizon. The Viper and Jared worked together. Thad was dust. He flew off the Viper—smashed into a guardrail. Jared circled back, taking his time, and calmed the Viper for a minute. He put her on the kickstand and walked over to a bloody, bruised, and disoriented Thad. “Try it again,” Jared said, crouching down, smiling. “You’re not wearing a helmet and I can make it look like an accident.” First mistake. Very first mistake was taking Jared for a sucker.

Jensen’s first mistake.

Well, it depends on who’s asking.

But his first mistake is doubting the driver.

The front bumper of the first police cruiser meets the back wheel of the Scrambler.

They don’t have very long.

The jig is up.

Faster…

Underneath Jensen’s arms, Jared’s lungs expand. His chest rises from one deep breath. The Scrambler shifts two inches to the right. Tires squeal. Rubber smokes. Jared pulls the clutch and uses the front brake only.

Dust and debris swarm.

Braking.

Stopping.

In between two cruisers, the Scrambler screeches to a stop, both sides separated by mere inches.

They’re wanted men.

Jared changes gears. The Scrambler howls.

Propelled, they dive straight into the cornfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but an experimentation with form. :D
> 
> comment, please! love hearing from y'all. <3
> 
> snippets of "Renegade" by Styx are in this chapter.


	22. Chapter 22

Heroes are everywhere.

Even on a motorcycle, wearing nothing but a helmet, cotton scrubs, and shoes no thicker than house slippers. Sirens yowl in the distance. Flood lights hunt for clues from the road. Lost.

Jared renders them invisible.

And he takes the law into his own hands—handling the Scrambler with ease, talking to her, reconciling the tension between her and Jensen. Stalks of corn seem to make a path for her and Jared, understanding that neither will hesitate to run them down. Hands firm, legs secure, shoulders back—Jared works with commanding precision and accuracy. Solid. Tough. Resolute.

Throughout life, there are continually reoccurring themes.

Sirens and lights behind them, Jensen knows that life is monstrous.

With his arms wrapped around Jared, forearms and hands resting below his chest and over the existence of a budding swell—he understands an addition to that theme.

All life is powerful.

The Scrambler glides to a halt, smooth as fresh poured concrete.

A billboard towers to their left. Corn remains at a distance, creating a circle of clear ground and gravel. It’s an old stakeout spot, vacant and available. Windblown, shaking, and nauseated, Jensen doesn’t immediately register the silence from the road and the Scrambler. In this haze, as fumes settle, he notices the elegance in Jared’s legs as he hefts off the Scrambler.

Confident arms lift up, hands ready to shuck the helmet.

Despite his right hand bleeding, the piercing ache in his ribs, and the thunder of reality approaching, Jensen’s chest squeezes at the sight of Jared, all grace and poise, slipping off the helmet in one fluid motion; chestnut hair tinted by indigo nighttime tumbles out, sweeping to the side with one shrug of his shoulder.

Jensen forgets that Jared didn’t kickstand the bike.

And Jared is no longer on the bike.

The Scrambler lets Jensen tip over and crash onto the ground.

“You’re so stupid!”

“…what?” Jensen croaks out, blinking, eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

Grabbing the Scrambler by her handlebars, Jared lifts her, uncaring if Jensen’s limbs are or aren’t attached to her. “You!” Jared shouts, pitching up the kickstand. His hands fly up in a frenzy, practically waving, trying to flag down a satellite to capture this moment. “You could have _killed_ yourself! Not just… what the fuck, Jensen?! Molotov cocktails?! Really?! You’re so STUPID!”

Still on the ground, Jensen can only absorb the world’s most epic verbal thrashing, handed out to him behind a decaying billboard out in the middle of nowhere.

Jared paces back and forth. Gravel scatters, fleeing from the rampage.

“You must be dumber than a box of rocks, Jensen. I cannot believe you would drive the bike all the way out here by yourself with a plan like _that_. What were you thinking?! _Were_ you thinking?! You know, somewhere along the drive I think your cheese fell off your cracker—Molotov cocktails! Shit, and I thought you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic before, but holy FUCK!”

The ground trembles as Jared stomps forward. He kneels, energized by rage, and grabs Jensen by the collar of his jacket. Nose to nose, Jensen braces himself for climactic, hormonal fury.

Hazel eyes look hard and brutal at Jensen.

They search out regret.

Within seconds, they find none.

“Some village,” Jensen wheezes, carefully placing his hands on Jared’s forearms, “is missin’ an idiot.”

Jared snorts and closes his eyes tight, pressing their foreheads together. The grip he has on Jensen’s collar turns his knuckles nearly white. Jensen moves his thumbs in light circles against Jared’s bare arms.

Their eyes meet once again. This time, they exchange something softer, something infinitely quieter than the placid, ethereal road. It’s all Tom Waits, playground woodchips, Cuban sandwiches, cold Jarritos, white orchids, faded blue jeans, radio dial, Dial soap everything.

The first kiss shocks Jensen, as if he’s thrown off the Scrambler again.

Hot, warm, and rough, Jared slams their mouths together and demands Jensen let him in. They might be all teeth and nose and desperate huffing for the first thirty seconds, but every prized press of skin against skin sings out in a tune no less than divine.

Behind the billboard on an inconsequential road, the pressure points in Jensen’s body unwind, welcoming familiar muscle, skin, and the ravenous force of another heartbeat.

Jensen kisses back with every ounce of strength he has left. He opens his mouth, tilts his head back, and moans low as Jared straddles his hips, grinding down, voracious for their contact to be closer and closer. The taste of toothpaste meets traces of gasoline and a hastily chewed piece of spearmint gum. Jared moans back, breathing in deep, his hands pushing up Jensen’s jacket and sliding under his shirt.

Close could never be closer enough.

“Now,” Jared exhales, lips against Jensen’s mouth. “Please.”

The best he do for words in a sentence tumble out slurred. “I… don’t… nothin’.”

No condoms. No lube. They weren’t the kind of supplies Jensen packed. His mind wasn’t…

Jared unzips Jensen’s jeans, letting his hands and mouth guide him. Sucking down Jensen’s cock in one vigorous gulp, he draws out a holler and a gasp from the fortunate recipient of the world’s fastest and best blow job. Head bobbing, throat working, Jared coats Jensen in spit—all the way from the thick, aching base to the leaking, flushed tip. His lips work to apply pressure at the same time his tongue circles around the twitching head. Not three seconds later, he opens his mouth wider and Jensen reaches the limit of how deep he can take him.

Sopping, soaked, and slick, Jared pops off, breathing hard.

He asks without asking—here, now, behind the billboard on an inconsequential road after Molotov cocktails, the cops on their tail, and a whole town of trouble on the horizon.

Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s neck and brings him in for a kiss so sharp and fevered he could breathe fire. Yes, now. Of course now. Here as the gravel scuffs and scrapes Jensen’s legs and Jared’s knees. Here, where there’s no time to fool around, no desire for anything but an onslaught of hunger.

Chest to chest, their rib cages rattle.

Hips lift, their silhouette traced by moonlight and freckled, bloody fingertips. Together, they shove the scrubs down Jared’s thighs, bunched up at his knees. The scrubs could go further, but Jared’s mouth distracts Jensen and as long as physics work with them they’re fine. Fine, just fine, fired up, fueled, electrified—burning.

Hands on the curves of Jared’s hips, Jensen pauses, his thumbs at the border of an unspoken boundary.

Shaking his head, Jared looks away. “Don’t.”

So Jensen doesn’t.

He moves his hands to Jared’s ass, groping while they kiss, groaning when Jared reaches back. Mouth to mouth, they share the same sweltering breath.

Jared braces himself on Jensen’s shoulders, gritting his teeth, chest heaving.

Jensen’s cock pushes past the first tight ring of muscle, surrounded by brutal pressure and wild heat. Jared exhales, shuddering, and eventually lets out a moan that causes Jensen’s mouth to water. It’s been a while. Spit can’t entirely replace lube. They are desperate and raging and it feels so good. Jared feels so good. Every intense inch, every clench of his round, firm ass, every catch of breath the deeper and deeper Jensen’s cock pushes in.

Opened up, Jared takes Jensen beautifully.

Between them, Jared’s cock pushes against Jensen’s stomach. The friction there is enough; Jared balances himself by holding onto Jensen’s forearms. For a minute, Jared doesn’t move. He keeps his chin tucked and eyes closed, breathing in and out. His nipples peak under the rough material of the scrubs. Crimson sweeps over his face. The smell of sex, gasoline, concrete, and dirt surround them.

Breathless, Jared tosses his head back. His hips rise tortuously slow.

They slam down and he snaps.

Jared rides Jensen’s cock like a man possessed.

Fucking himself up and down, taking every bloated, aching inch of Jensen, Jared cries out. He twists his hips, adjusting the angle, taking Jensen’s cock in a frenzy. Intoxicated by the thrill, the depth, the sheer force of it all, Jared digs his fingertips into leather. His eyes roll back the second Jensen starts thrusting up, matching his pace. They all but claw at each other—fighting for the command of the rapid rhythm building between them.

Jensen spreads Jared’s ass open, holding him like that before stilling Jared completely so he can fuck into Jared fast and hard. He pummels the right spot, feeling Jared’s cock respond to every frenetic thrust.

One strong sweep and Jensen brings Jared closer, fully seated in his lap.

With Jared’s legs wrapped around Jensen’s waist and arms wrapped over the other’s shoulders, they rise and fall together. Rocking, bearing down, completely filled and overwhelmed, Jared shouts his orgasm. His muscles seize, contracting, squeezing, milking Jensen’s cock.

Jensen comes, pulsing and spurting, buried deep and held there.

He pumps rope after rope of come into Jared, nothing to separate them.

It feels so good.

Better than anything before.

Slumped against each other, sweaty, sticky, and just slightly trembling, Jared runs his hands through Jensen’s hair. He presses a kiss to the shell of Jensen’s ear and he keeps them cheek to cheek.

They have no idea what they’re doing.

But this feels right. Anything else—there could never be anything else.

Sometime later, the sky above still indigo, they clean up and prepare. Little is said. They still have another three hours on the Scrambler. Although the option to drive elsewhere hangs between them, it is understood that they need to go back to town. The cops will be there, Jared’s parents will be there, the whole town will be on high alert—but they can’t just skip out.

Exactly why isn’t said aloud, but Jensen detects the reason in the way Jared accepts Jensen’s jacket.

Jensen refuses the helmet again.

Taking their time, they board the Scrambler once more. Jared waits to wake her up.

He leans back against Jensen.

“Thanks,” Jared murmurs, exhaustion in his voice. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Yell at me more often,” Jensen yawns. “It’s kind of hot.”

Ten miles down the road, Jared pulls over.

“What?” He lifts up the helmet and looks over his shoulder. “What is it?”

At first, all Jensen can do is laugh. His left wrist is broken.

“Jay, that’s my jackin’ off wrist.”

“You’re right-handed.”

“I hold your mouth open with my right hand.”

“…don’t make me toss you, Jensen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pheeeeeew! :D
> 
> thanks for being patient! hope you enjoyed the smut. ;) leave me comments! comments are awesome!


	23. Chapter 23

The option of never returning to town crosses their minds throughout the drive.

Especially as they near town.

Cornfields can only mask them for so long. And steady as she is, as obedient to Jared’s direction as she is, the Scrambler doesn’t run on teenage dreams or hormones. Her needle hovers close to the neon orange E. Maybe one day the human race will not only wring fuel out of corn, but make it accessible to the public as well—but that day is not today. They have to stop.

It’s all the legalities of shit that also forces them into town on fumes at four in the morning.

All considering, they made good time. Better time than Jensen’s journey, anyway.

Cop cars creep through the streets, visible despite their techniques. A few lights in the windows of nosy and curious residents allow for a decent gauge.

“But they’ll be on foot,” Jared mutters, cutting the Scrambler’s engine. He leans his weight to the right. The coast to stopping was so smooth, Jensen barely noticed it. “And there’s no telling how many.”

Two hours away from sunrise and their town sees more activity in the streets than the last time Jensen coordinated a prank before school. From their shadowed spot in an alleyway on the edge of downtown, their lungs work in rhythm. Every time a squad car slithers by their lungs inflate. When all four tires rotate on, the breaths of air following couldn’t blow over a leaf. Restraint and control concentrates into every possible square inch of their bodies.

“I can burn shit again.”

Nose scrunch.

“Okay, then you come up with a plan.”

“I’m the damsel, it’s not my job to come up with a plan.” Lines exist on Jared’s face that were never there before. And though it may be the dim light around them, a darkness covers Jared’s eyes like permanent filters. He won’t say it. Jensen won’t say it. They need to rest.

Jensen shrugs off his jacket. It swallows Jared’s shoulders up in the same way, except Jared seems to lean into it. Humor. That’s got to work. “Some damsel you are,” Jensen huffs. “Didn’t even get a kiss.”

Eyebrows rise, followed by a wilting smirk. “Sure you didn’t.”

A squad car nearby turns on its lights. Red and blue reach out and grab Jensen by the heart.

Trash cans turn over somewhere near the old Mason place—four houses down. This town ain’t that big. They might not even make an effort to search every alley for one escapee. Except… that escapee was sprung by his boyfriend who saw it fit to commit a million different felonies at once. Maybe if Jensen had been a little more subtle and pulled something off like a scene from Ocean’s Eleven instead of something closer to Michael Bay proportions.

If they start up the Scrambler now, it won’t matter how quiet she runs or how expertly Jared drives her. They’ll hear her and see them.

“My house?” Jensen offers, the hair on the back of his neck standing. “The Vatican? Fort Knox?”

Different scenarios play through Jared’s mind. None of them work. He inches closer to Jensen, gripping onto the helmet, turning away from the alley entrance to the street. “No, they’ll expect us to go to your house, not mine.”

“Fanny’s?”

“She’s in deep enough, Jen.”

“So?”

“So.”

“Like we’re not.”

“Shh.”

Two windows light up on the street across from them. It isn’t only the police who can spot them—if they look hard enough.

Jared takes Jensen’s hands in his and squeezes, shutting his eyes, and biting down on his bottom lip. It looks like he’s praying. But what’s he praying for? An out? An in? Wings? Teleportation? Jesus to appear before them and act as their lawyer then take them out for a nice steak dinner? While he’s at it, could he put in a good word for Jensen to the Big Guy? Vandalism, petty theft, arson, and destruction of property are such small details. Couldn’t the Big Guy focus on Jensen’s attempts to tip Ilan for their lunches instead?

That’s it.

“Leave the helmet,” Jensen whispers. “Keep the jacket.”

Silently, Jensen applauds himself for referencing The Godfather, possibly the greatest movie ever made in the history of forever. He also leads Jared further down the alley, away from the street, and back around the buildings. Flashlight full moons threaten the expedition. Jensen leads, leaning hard on his toes several times to avoid stepping into illuminated traps. He’s not wearing shoes and his right sock keeps sliding down his ankle like it has somewhere to be.

On the street, a cop car revs to life and speeds off fast enough to burn rubber. It leaves behind a sickly smell.

“Whatever we’re doing,” Jared pants, sticking close to Jensen, “do it fast.”

“Patience is a god damn virtue.”

“I can hear more cars.”

“Stop it.”

“Two more, this side of the street.”

“Quiet!”

“Another up ahead just pulled up.”

Jensen looks up. His eyes adjust to the radically different time of day. He’s not used to seeing the building from this angle or at this hour. But there’s no room for a mistake here. Before Jared can say anything else about another squad car, Jensen stops and grabs Jared by the shoulders.

“Calm down,” he orders, their noses less than an inch apart. “Can you climb a ladder?”

Dimples flash around a frown. “Of course I can. I’m not some…”

“Fine, whatever.” Jensen interrupts, his mind working fifty miles an hour ahead of his reactions and actions. “See that fire escape?” His finger points higher than he’d prefer.

“Yeah.”

“You sure you can make that.”

“Yes!”

“Okay.”

“It’ll make too much noise, Jen. Jen!”

It might be four or five in the morning, but Jensen could really go for a Jarrito right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thanks all for the wait. :D 
> 
> short chapter, but i wanted to update and say hello! i hope you're all doing well. <3
> 
> stay tuned for more updates! so glad to be back with these two.


	24. Chapter 24

Salvation smells like bay leaves.

Although Ilan frequently wakes up at sunrise to bake bread, he typically isn’t prepared to see teenagers on his fire escape tapping at the kitchen window. He opens it, waiting to ask questions until the boys are no longer dangling three stories above the alleyway.

Jensen swings inside first.

“Easy,” Jensen murmurs out the window, both arms outstretched. “Take it easy.”

From rapidly eroding darkness, a second voice responds. “I’m gonna throw up, Jen.”

“Hold it!”

“Nuh uh…”

“Jared! Just get _in_ here… oh, gross…”

The sound of retching isn’t pleasant at any time, but Jensen discovers that it is especially not pleasant when it’s being done from two stories up. Despite his own nausea, he keeps his arms wrapped around Jared’s hips. He silently prays that puke doesn’t land in his hair. It’s the least of their problems by far, but it would be nice to avoid it. Jared coughs and sputters on the fire escape, causing the ladder to shake. Jensen tugs, signaling that the time has come to get the fuck inside.

Of course, getting Jared inside doesn’t happen so easily. The window’s not exactly accommodating and the angle makes shit worse. Ilan helps to steady Jared. Little by little, they ease Jared into the kitchen, lowering him down, until his feet are on the pale blue tile.

Shaking and sweating, Jared wraps his arms around himself, eyes closed.

With care, Jensen rubs a few circles over Jared’s back.

They are each exhausted.

“You’re all we’ve got right now,” Jensen says, plain as the day starting on the other side of that window. He lays their cards on the table—too tired from running to do much more. “Just a few hours. Enough so we can sleep and figure out what happens next.”

Ilan shakes his head. He paces the kitchen, hands behind his back. Already, there’s the faint dust of flour on his apron. The fight in his mind shows once or twice on his expression. Each step seems measured. Calculated. What happens if he says yes? What happens if he says no? Jensen looks from Ilan to Jared. His mind deals less elegantly with the outcomes, chased by the throb of his wrist and a screaming, whistling sound from his lungs whenever he takes in a breath too deep.

They are covered in smoke, dried blood, and the remnants of the road.

Hiding in dumpsters could be a temporary solution. Dave’s is too far across town. No more can be asked of Fanny. It isn’t safe to contact Jensen’s network or his parents. Donna and Alan might even take the law’s side on this one. Or worse, be completely unable to do anything about it, just like last time.

“One day,” Ilan sighs, facing Jared and Jensen. “That is all I can offer.”

Jensen nods. Jared whispers a faint, “Thank you.”

For a moment, the three of them stand in the kitchen, smothered in silence.

Jared steps forward and embraces Ilan, who, shocked, returns the gesture.

Relief finally in his voice, Jared adds, “Thank you very much.”

 

Ilan’s parents got out of Cuba before things were bad.

It didn’t spare them much, because it’s tough to think of Cuba as anything but choked and bleeding, but it gave them the opportunity to flee without depending on a piece of rubber. They were fortunate enough to fly to Mexico. Ilan’s brother, just a baby at the time, never once cried on the journey. The same could not be said for Ilan’s mother. They left their families behind—their own parents, convinced they were too old to do anything but wait out Castro, and so many others. Aunts, uncles, cousins, the dearest of friends who would drop by every night for a game of canasta over café.

Never is a popular word amongst Cubans.

Never did they expect, never did they think, never did they dream… never could they go back.

And never did Castro fade. Ilan’s mother never saw her own mother or father again. Her older sister died only a year after they had left. The news didn’t get to them until Matos turned four. One of their father’s friends spent ten years in prison, arrested by his best friend under direct orders from the Devil.

So many cousins went missing.

If not on the island, then away from it.

For the few success stories there were of reaching Miami, there were three times that of bodies running, swimming, gasping towards treacherous torture. Maybe it was the waves of the Atlantic overtaking what was nothing more than a few planks tied together with duct tape. Maybe it was the hands of a loved one backed by enduring terror.

What was worse? For their oppression to be familiar? Or faceless?

Anyone and everyone could be detained at any time. Children. Young women. Old women. The man who slept on the corner of the street sobbing because word had come back from the raft on the ocean about the baby and wife he had himself helped them onto.

Ilan was born here in the States, because his parents couldn’t find work anywhere in Mexico.

And eventually, he made his way here, serving the recipes of his mother and grandmothers to people who have never tried Cuban food. Not many Cubans live here. Throughout the years he’s known a handful of others somewhat like him. There used to be a Chilean family who regularly bought empanadas despite the difference in recipe. The grandmother never said a single word. Around her, the world continued on in all its harsh unyielding chaos. Inside her mind, Ilan knew she was carrying around the same memories and stories his parents did.

People disappearing in the middle of the night.

Coffee still warm on the table and no one around to drink it.

Sometimes there would be the sign of a struggle, sometimes there might be a book with its pages seemingly still fluttering from one to the next.

Jensen doesn’t sleep for more than a few hours.

He made his way downstairs and found Ilan in the kitchen, sipping café con leche and eating from a plate of butter cookies. Over the past hour or so, black and white photographs of men and women in sharp, beautifully tailored suits have been passed over the table.

Ilan hasn’t seen his brother in over five years. When their parents died, he became difficult to reach.

“You think he went back?” Jensen keeps his voice low. From head to toe his body aches. Bruises and scars have already set in. Jared made an attempt to wrap his wrist, and Ilan supplied him with a few ibuprofen to take the edge off. If he can barely survive breaking Jared out, Jensen questions his ability to flee a country.

Setting down a plate of toast and jam for Jensen, Ilan shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Would you wanna go back?”

“There is no going back to anything for me.”

“Oh.”

“I was not born there. I have no ties there. Just… empty houses.”

“What happened to that other family here?”

“They went back. Pinochet died and the country changed. The same happened in Argentina.”

“How many people?”

“How many people what?”

“…went missing?”

Taking a deep breath, Ilan sits down again. “Hundreds of thousands.”

Jensen doesn’t say anything in response to that for a minute, out of respect. When he does, it’s the only thing he can think of, being who he is. “Our education system here sucks.”

The comment draws a short laugh out of Ilan. “Finish your breakfast. Then you can wash up. Please do not come downstairs while customers are here. I’m sure I did not need to say that, but I feel better saying it anyway.” He glances at a red clock on the wall. “When Tuli gets here at noon to help with lunch, I will bring you two something.”

An unspoken agreement lingers between them. By nightfall, Jared and Jensen have got to figure something out. They can’t hide forever. Life doesn’t work that way.

Memories follow, even if the law doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay an update! :D 
> 
> not an exactly happy update... but... uh.... yay? 
> 
> leave me comments because I'm sick and could use the comfort. <3 damn this cold!


	25. Chapter 25

Ilan sends Jensen upstairs with a plate of toast and a mug of tea. Chamomile tea, to be exact.

When the fire alarms went off, Jared said the nuns hesitated evacuating the building. It was more likely that someone had tried to create a diversion by pulling the alarm, not setting it off with an actual fire. No one was allowed any access to stuff that could potentially cut butter, much less matches. Marching up and down the rows of beds in the main dormitory, Sister Catherine barked out questions.

The wait created time for Jared to collect a few things.

He saw some of the others doing the same.

Jensen slips back into the store room. He manages to set down the mug without spilling a drop.

“You showered,” he remarks, a little surprised by the sight. Half an hour ago, Jared was curled up on the cot Ilan lent them, sleeping deeper than the Pacific Ocean.

Stretching, Jared nods. Ilan didn’t just let them use the store room. He provided a cot—only one, it’s all he had—and a change of clothes for them both. The navy, flannel shirt hangs loose on Jared, but he looks more comfortable in it. It’s deceptive, that shirt, because it almost looks like one of Jensen’s. This could be any other day. Any other time. It could be them in Jensen’s room, as they’re supposed to be, and it could be Jensen pulled in. In for a kiss, for perceptive and tender fingers to card through his hair. 

Running a hand through his own damp hair, Jared glances at the plate of toast in Jensen’s hand.

Something always brings Jensen back to Jared.

Vinyl records in Alan’s closet. Jarritos and fried yucca. Socks falling asleep in Jared’s lap. Video games and horror movies on the large couch in the living room, where there’s space to seat four, but their legs always tangle together.

Souls on some unknown adventure. 

“…is that for me?”

Jensen flinches in place. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

Jared tentatively takes a bite out of the unbuttered toast. He then accepts the mug, clasping his hands around it. Silence hangs between them longer than Jensen would ever want to admit. Nothing about this is familiar. Every event keeps unfolding—strange and overwhelmingly foreign. And Jensen knows that despite his proximity to the situation, he holds the perspective of an outsider in the most critical way. 

A glance to his phone—which is a little worse for wear with all the spills he took—announces a couple of hours until noon. Sunlight the color of mustard on Cubano sandwiches spreads out in the store room. A little smaller than Jensen’s room, bags of dried beans and rice line the walls. Clusters of garlic hang in the corner of the room nearest the door. One the opposite wall, a spice rack holds everything from small jars of pickles to hot sauce to dozens of shakers. Cumin. Paprika. Adobo. Oregano. 

Funny how this used to be a a simple hideaway from homework and curfews. 

The smell of smoke remains on Jensen’s hands, persistent and accusing. 

He sits on the floor, next to the cot, and attempts to see the future. There won’t be summer vacation. There won’t be summer reading. No more gambling behind the school, skipping class, or crafting flashlight codes. True, all these things had to change eventually, but they were supposed to fade little by little, not all at once. 

Searching his mind for something, anything to say, Jensen thinks of Fat Elvis. Who helped him into the jumpsuit? Out of it? Did anyone care for him off stage? Was he his own act or the casino’s? Would any of the starlets on stage with him have touched him once the lights were out? 

“Do you hate me?” His voice startles him, the presence of it and its chosen words a surprise. 

Hazel eyes flutter over. 

“You can,” Jensen offers. “It’s okay if you do. I… I would hate me too.”

This is all uncharted territory. All of it. The situation. The possibility that Jared might… 

“No.” 

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Uhm…”

“Please. Don’t ask about that place.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Not right now.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh huh. You sleep okay?”

“I slept.”

A ridiculous amount of hours in Jensen’s life have been dedicated to making Jared laugh. He’d push the air in and out of his lungs in careful, measured breaths for the rest of his life if it meant just a single flash of dimples. No matter what he said he’d do before this. Before any of this. Before stumbling into this town hellbent on testing limits and boundaries. 

What if this wasn’t the right thing to do?

“Jen?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to leave by noon.”                                                                                                                                                                                                         

“That’s broad daylight, Jay.” 

“Sooner the better.”

“Ilan said we could have a day. We can leave at night.”

Jaw set, Jared shakes his head no. “We can’t wait that long.” Before Jensen can counter, Jared stands up, mug still in his hands. He avoids the window, though his eyes glance towards it. “They’re gonna be looking and asking.” Hazel eyes turn to Jensen. “Do you really want them to ask Ilan?” 

The longer they stay, the more trouble they caused for Ilan. 

“But walking out now would be like handing ourselves over,” Jensen presses. He gets to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his ribs and the increasing pain in his wrist. “Ilan said he could handle it.” The desperation in his voice almost matches that which he sees in Jared’s eyes. “I know you want this to be over, but I need some time to come up with another plan. I’m not walking us out there without one.”

Underneath the smell of smoke, Jensen swears he can still pick up traces of Dial soap and laundry detergent. He’s close enough to Jared where his heartbeat responds as it always has. 

Jared places his hands on Jensen’s chest. 

Standing nose to nose, Jared closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Looking at them, there’s not too much difference between now and a few weeks back, when they were at the park. They’re still the same height. Jared’s hair still forms subtle waves at the ends. Jensen’s still breathless in anticipation over what will happen next. Will they kiss? Can he kiss Jared? What does Jared’s mouth feel like, again? What’s the weight of the world in comparison to Jared’s hold?

Downstairs and outside there are all kinds of noise. The world continues on, with only three people in it knowing about fire escape escapades and the small bundle of material possessions near the cot. 

“I have a plan,” Jared says, wrapping his arms around Jensen. “Trust me, please.”

Jensen feels the slight swell of Jared’s middle press against his. 

Ten minutes later, Jensen opens the window in the upstairs kitchen to the fire escape. He climbs out and contemplates a career in either firefighting or acrobatics. If he becomes an acrobat, he can wear sequins and glitter as a uniform. But if he’s a firefighter, he’d look just as great in that uniform. 

“You wanna join the circus?” He extends his hand. 

Just a few seconds later, Jared takes it. 

On the fire escape yet again.

“I did,” Jared says, with a quick nod to Jensen. “That was the day I met you.”

Shaking his head and beginning their descent, Jensen sighs. “Welp, let’s get this show on the road then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you so much for waiting. here's a new chapter. :D 
> 
> thank you!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS HAVE BEEN EDITED FOR THIS CHAPTER. make sure you read through the tags to see what's been added. 
> 
> cn: threats, self-harm, police.

Sophia Petrillo marched into Jensen’s world when he was eight years old. 

Alan had decided that The Golden Girls was fairly wholesome and safe enough to sit Jensen in front of while he argued with producers over the phone--a process that was anything but wholesome. All the jokes about menopause and sex after the age of fifty went right over Jensen’s head, but he understood what Sophia meant whenever she said, “Picture it. Sicily. 1922.” 

So.

Picture it.

An alleyway. 2016. An attractive teenage boy embarks, fearless and fierce, on a glorious journey of freedom and ass-kicking. He sits atop a beautiful, iconic piece of machinery only he can tame, long, chestnut hair blowing in the wind before he puts his helmet on. The leather jacket this boy wears solidifies the instant, piercing attraction. With a glance over his shoulder, he nods to his passenger, signaling that he’s about to put the motorcycle in drive. 

That boy is Jared.

And his passenger is Jensen.

Jensen is also pretty sure his wrist is still broken. But hey, why say anything now? 

They peeked out at the street before settling on the Scrambler. This is like war. Sophia pops into Jensen’s head again as Jared starts up the Scrambler as quietly as possible. Chess is like war, only cheaper. It’s the perfect game for Sicily, a country that’s very war-like and dead-ass broke. Jensen sighs and wraps his arms around Jared’s chest. What would Sophia do? 

There are two cop cars at the end of the street, one parked facing the alleyway and the other parked facing opposite. One cop car was seen heading west, in the direction of Jared’s parent’s house and another was spotted heading north, in the direction of Jensen’s house. A distraction would be great right about now, but orchestrating one on the scale they’d need this last minute is impossible, even for Jensen. And who knows how many cop cars there really are in town? These four could be it, or they could just be the tip of an already large iceberg. Side roads won’t really cut it, so they’re stuck with the main roads in broad daylight and Jared doesn’t have his license yet, much less a license for a motorcycle, of course that’s the least of their problems right now, but it does bear mentioning.

“Hold on,” Jared shouts through the helmet and revs the engine. 

“Hold on? I am holding…”

What would Sophia do?

Probably what Jared does now: gun it.

Like the first shot of Jared that Jensen’s eyes took in, they go down the street strong--scorching the pavement, etching their mark on the main road to war.

Unaccustomed to doing much more than directing traffic when geese cross the road, the cops take a moment to understand what’s going on. Sirens and lights explode like mediocre fireworks. Jared weaves in and out of whatever traffic there is, angling the Scrambler, pushing her hard with every turn and twist. The squad cars can’t move as fast through the streets, which buys them time, but only precious seconds.

Jensen presses his cheek hard against Jared’s back. The Scrambler holds up exceptionally well at the speed Jared pushes her to perform at, but it’s not her speciality. She’s not a Ducati made for racing. 

And the smallest miscalculation in speed or angle could, at this speed, kill them. All three of them.

The intersection to turn for Jared’s house comes up. A cop thinks they’ll block them off, but Jensen knows Jared has no issues about taking the Scrambler to the sidewalk--if it comes to that. Jensen squeezes Jared’s right arm. 

Jared hesitates. Jensen squeezes again. Listen. Just listen this once. 

Making a hard right, Jared turns them around, zipping them between two cop cars. Tires screech. The Scrambler roars. They fly past house after house until finally, Jensen’s purpose for turning reveals itself: his house. And they were right, another squad car was there, waiting for them. But the cops aren’t the only people outside: Donna, Alan, and another adult with them stand out on the lawn, speaking with one of the cops. 

Too afraid to wave, Jensen hopes for the best. 

Fortunately, his parents look up from their business with the cop and piece two and two together. 

Donna immediately breaks free and runs down the lawn, waving her arms. But they’re not stopping. That wasn’t the point of swinging by. Jared raises his arm and motions them to follow. They don’t get a chance to see if Donna or Alan understand the signal. A squad car tries to cut them off on the right. Jared veers left.

“PULL OVER,” the cop blasts through a megaphone. They squawk something else, but Jensen doesn’t pay attention. What he does pay attention to is the fact that his shoulder grazes a couple of mailboxes.

“Jared!” Jensen flinches. “A little close!” 

Jensen holds onto Jared tighter as they launch over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The Scrambler tilts, reeling from the jump and the impact, and Jared bears his weight down as a counterbalance. Their time is up. Three squad cars catch up with them. Jared zig zags, refusing to allow them past. Every second brings them closer to their destination--and good thing too, because this kind of velocity isn’t stable. 

Finally, Jared’s parent’s house comes into view. 

A new problem arises: how to stop long enough to get inside.

Head held high and shoulders back, Jared’s body language tells Jensen everything he needs to know. This is the time to pray to the good gods of gravity, balance, and properly working brakes. It’s an old maneuver, one Jared executed just outside of the compound, but it’s all they’ve got. He looks over his shoulder once, then again to make sure, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut. 

Calculations are made. 

Jared hits the brakes. 

They both jolt forward, their skeletons rattling in their skins, and the Scramblers tires hiss against the asphalt. The sight and smell of burning rubber nearly clouds out the flash of lights and sirens swinging right past them. Without missing a beat, Jared leans to the left, pushes the Scrambler forward with his leg, and they make a complete 180 turnaround on a dime. 

This kid is crazy.

And so is Jensen, who hoots and laughs maniacally at the cops who are now at the end of the road. Two of the squad cars collided like bumper cars--nothing major, but they’re confused and blocking the third. 

The Scrambler pulls up to the driveway on target and coasts to a gentle stop.

For one single moment, as Jensen detaches from Jared, they sit, completely out of breath. 

And now it’s time to run again.

Except now, they’re running towards the house and the slowly opening front door. Jared’s father appears and blocks the door, shouting something as unintelligible as the shouting through the megaphone. Gerald Padalecki is a large man and cuts a formidable pose. But this isn’t the time for intimidation, not when they’ve come this far. Like a battering ram, Jared shoves his father by the shoulders. Pure shock knocks Gerald backwards, stumbling and slow. Jensen slips past, directly behind Jared, and they step into the family room where not too long ago upbeat music and even the slightest physical contact were forbidden. 

Nothing inside the house has changed. 

All is as it ever was, as if the absence of their youngest son had made no difference. 

Life as they both know it has been turned upside down in the cruelest of ways and here, inside this house, not a single item is out of place. 

Outside, tires squeal on the driveway. Blue and red lights creep inside through the family room bay window, extending their reach towards Jared and Jensen. Jared takes a step away. Jensen stays where he is, closest to the kitchen, which is closest to the back door. They’ll jump fences if they have to. They’ll run through backyards and the whole goddamn town, as far as their legs will carry, because there is no other option. 

Before chaos rips in through the front door, Mrs. Padalecki takes center stage in perfect form.

She could shriek. She could scream. She could summon the powers of her god and repeat the Ten Commandments or something in a perfect blend of religious fanaticism and jagged heartlessness. 

But she doesn’t. 

Jared doesn’t let her. 

He stands straight, shoulders back, stance wide and a silver pocket knife appears in his right hand. With the sleeve of Alan’s leather jacket pushed up, the blade snaps at the air above his exposed left wrist. This was  _ not _ part of the plan. This isn’t Jared, the boy who nagged at Jensen about the cleanliness of his room, or the boy who could eat more nachos than a human body should ever be able to digest. 

Incensed, deep in critical desperation, Jared shouts, “Call them off!” 

Neither parent moves. They don’t flinch at all in reaction to Jared or to the team of four officers blasting through the front door, batons raised. 

Gripping the knife tighter, pressing the blade against his forearm, Jared repeats himself. 

“Call them off or I’ll do it.” 

Mrs. Padalecki tilts her chin up in defiance. “You’re bluffing.”

Urgent rage strangles the heartbreak there. Jared drives the knife against his forearm. A one inch gash stretches from east to west. Blood spills out, onto the blade, onto the polished hardwood floor. Jared maintains the tip of the blade against the river’s mouth. 

Calm, his mother merely motions to the officers. 

Did he have to cut so deep? What the fuck is he thinking? This is out of control. They’ve cornered themselves, and for what reason? Jensen pledged to trust Jared to carry out the plan, but specifics were never mentioned. This is a gamble. All of it. It always has been. But Jared’s arm won’t stop bleeding and he’s holding the knife so tight his knuckles have gone white. Where the fuck did he get it? How…

“Jensen!” 

“That’s our son!” Donna’s voice breaks through the two seconds of pause. “No! I will not stand down, that. Is. My. Son!” 

Donna and Alan muscle their way past the doorway and into the living room for a front row view. Alan notices Jared’s arm and the knife against it first. He holds Donna back by her shoulders. “Stop, stop, stop, stop,” he gasps, drawing her close to him. “Jared. Put down the knife.” 

“Dad,” Jensen snaps and shakes his head.

Alan takes the cue. 

The floor belongs to Jared.

Blood forms a dark puddle at Jared’s feet, growing in circumference with every passing second. It expands outwards, dangerous like the tension in the air, but thicker, and a hundred times more valuable.

“You’re going to drop the charges.” Jared’s voice possesses the confidence necessary to strike a deal with the devil. “All of them, even the ones against Jensen. You’re going to make them disappear. You’re good at that.”

Of course, the devil doesn’t settle. She takes a long look at the pool of blood on her floor. “Over a scratch?” 

On the left, Donna and Alan shuffle, this time Alan wanting to step in and Donna forcing him to hold his ground. Everyone has to trust Jared. 

Jared replies with action first. He opens his arms and stands with the jacket open, the curve of his stomach on display. That’s why he changed into Jensen’s shirt at the last minute instead of a baggier one Ilan loaned them. The swell is unmistakable. This is no random weight gain, no growth spurt, no assemblage of loose clothing. 

“You’ll drop everything and forget about me. Get it?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I don’t have to.” The knife retreats. “I know what you want. And I know what you tried to do. But no one wants a public scandal. Not when Megan’s running a campaign for public office.” 

_ Jared’s older sister is running for some board for the city and only drops by to rant to her family about how perfect they all need to be for her to have a chance against the incumbent. Any failure on their part to preserve that image will, she assures them, be the untimely death of her bright political career. _

Jared pulls a letter out from the right sleeve. “These are papers emancipating me, effective immediately.” He tosses the letter at the devil’s feet. “Sign them. Now.”

Mr. Padalecki finds his voice long enough to spit out, “You think it’s that simple? What are you? Stupid? Stupid enough to…” 

“Gerald.” Mrs. Padalecki puts one hand up and his voice dies. 

Taking her time, she picks up the letter and begins to read its contents. The pages appear more dog-eared than surviving the journey from the past two days. As she reads the print before her, officers and the adult seen on the Ackles’ lawn from before argue. It’s an odd moment, but Jensen realizes that she’s Donna and Alan’s lawyer. 

Jensen hurts. All over. But he can’t imagine the hurt Jared feels. And all the hurt he’s going to carry away from this. How he can stand there, borrowed sneakers stained with blood, with total conviction--that was part of the plan all along. 

But in these odd moments--odd to say the least--Jared gets free.

The devil and her consort sign, initial, and print. 

Two birds, one stone. Jared is no longer their problem. And they are no longer his. 

And the second those papers touch Jared’s hands, large hands grab Jensen. Two cops ambush him from behind and slam him hard enough against the floor that his vision blurs. 

Of all things, Jensen finds himself surprised by how fast they cuff him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you all for being so patient and hanging in there for an update. here we are! comments are love! this is a critical chapter. i totally made myself anxious while writing this one! 
> 
> thank you! <3


	27. Chapter 27

It takes three policemen to haul Jensen from the living room to the back of a squad car. 

They shove him in like an animal. 

Jared watches. He sees every blow to Jensen’s ribs. Every shove. Every twist of his hair from the hands of adults swarming over him with their unfair advantages. He watches the law go above and beyond the call of duty by producing blood to spill from Jensen’s nose. They rough him up in a matter of seconds. Sixty seemingly miniscule seconds. Popcorn doesn’t micowave that fast. But these are men of the law. 

And it’s clear to anyone that they’ve been paid.

Different adults portray different reactions. Donna bolts for the cops with their hands on her son. Alan charges at the one cop standing to the side, calling Jensen in. The lawyer joins Donna, though her offense remains verbal instead of physical. Jared reflects his own parents for a moment--standing still, to the side, watching. 

Jared tugs on the sleeve of the leather coat.

He smashes his fist through the front of his mother’s prized, early 19th century china hutch. 

In another motion, he grips the sides of it, gray, weathered wood smooth under his fingers. The muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms work together. Wide stance. Twist of his torso. Shove of his hands. 

The china hutch explodes in fragments of wood, glass, and porcelain. 

Family heirlooms: priceless plates brought over on the Mayflower, expensive porcelain handed down four generations, hand blown glass figurines in the shape of angels said to look down over their household. 

Psalm 18:7-15.

_ The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they trembled because he was angry. _

Two seconds and the Triumph revs up, ready, willing, and imposing. Shards of glass detach from leather sleeves and litter the concrete driveway behind him. Rubber burns. 

_ Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning coals blazed out of it.  _

Solitary. 

Alone. 

Alone alone alone alone alone alone. These primary organs of respiration. Nothing but a mass of hollowed out tubes surrounded by sponge. Air should flow through the pharynx, down the larynx, and into the trachea. Exhaust. Bodywork. Brakes. Controls. Chains. Bronchi. Bronchioles. Quality components on a limited warranty. 

_ He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind.  _

Solitary. 

Long-term confinement. A necessary quarantine of his mind from the others. Keep him away. He was dangerous. Not because he could escape. But his ideas were fire. He didn’t know how the others could accept their fates. It was beyond his scope of understanding why no one tried. Why not a single one of the others like him wouldn’t at least rally together someway, somehow. There was no message system. No language of signals. No after hours solidarity. No faith. Not a single attempt to push the ideas that maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe they weren’t the ones who should be punished. 

They just sat there. Day after day. And listened to very carefully spoken words and very carefully selected passages completely out of context. No one questioned. No one spat out the gruel, the murky water, the chalky vitamins, or the venomous phrases to repent. 

Solitary.

A 9x9 windowless room. 

He was force fed with a plastic tube jammed down his throat, held down, the process done at all hours day or night. If he threw up it, they renewed their efforts, successfully, and allowed him to stew in his vomit for hours before they would clean it up. If he didn’t throw it up, he lost sensation in his legs, and the world became a frosted blur. His toilet was his bed was his place to curl up was his hole in the ground six feet under nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but walls walls walls walls walls walls walls walls walls nothing but nothing but nothing but walls walls walls…

_ He made darkness his covering, his canopy around him--the dark rain clouds of the sky.  _

Body equipment. Electrical system. Transmission. Suspension. Cooling. Respiratory tract. The alveoli where oxygen enters and carbon dioxide leaves the blood. 2-into-1, two exhaust pipes mated into one pipe. Maybe a 2-Stroke, an engine in which the piston assembly runs two strokes per cycle. Backbone could be bone, tendon, muscle, and tissue or the top tube of a motorcycle frame. 

Food through a slot. 

Eighty-one square feet.

Smaller than a horse stable.

Periods of time were lost to him. Something in the water? Something in the food? Something underneath his fingernails? Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless. Grief in its most profound form kept inside walls walls walls walls. 

The hole, the pit, the room, the end. All those words. And barely any breath left.

He could have opened up in a spray of things, could have broken his own heart and more, laid down his burden and finished. Done. 

It hurt to be there.

All he had, all he needed. Jensen was the air he would kill to breathe. 

All he had, all he needed, he is the air he would kill to breathe. So he waited, out of breath, hoping to someday breathe again. 

_ Out of the brightness of his presence clouds advanced, with hailstones and bolts of lightning. The Lord thundered from heaven; the voice of the Most High resounded. He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of lightning he routed them. The valleys of the sea were exposed and the foundations of earth laid bare. _

The Triumph keeps up with sirens. She ensures a direct route to the station. No where else will they stop, no where else will they retell pieces of time mysteriously hidden away. 

At the station steps, Jared shouts, lightning bolt in hand. He holds his phone up, camera pointed towards blood and bruises, the scene recorded in full view. 

All he has, all he needs. Out of breath. An awesome pressure in his lungs. 

_ At your rebuke, Lord. At the blast of breath from your nostrils _ . 

Malevolent hands lift from Jensen’s body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience! life has been chaotic here, but i've settled into my new job (yay!) and have a little more stability. :)
> 
> for this chapter, i've used psalm 18: 7-15 as recommended to me by a friend, plus "Breathe Again" by Sara Bareilles. it's a beautiful song and y'all should listen to it. 
> 
> comments are always appreciated, they keep me motivated to write more and update! <3


	28. Chapter 28

Jensen had his first taste of drag when he was six years old and got into Donna's trunk of rejected costumes. 

He paraded around in heels and spandex dresses for a week, despite Donna and Alan harping him about potentially breaking his ankles from wobbling on four inch heels. Drag suited him. It was fun and daring and relaxing. When he bribed makeup artists on different sets, he usually asked for one or two makeovers: to either become a drag queen for a day or for them to make him look like a hardened man of the world. The lipstick and gold hoop earrings and drawn on eyebrows were always more interesting and appealing than the fake bags under his eyes or scars under his lip. 

If he felt especially secure in drag, he'd lock himself in his room and perform for audiences of hundreds of wealthy people who had to book months in advance to get a seat. Front row would be politicians who wanted discretion, but always got hammered and let a few taxpayer dollars slide from their clammy hands to Jensen's garter. Way in back would be the folks who didn't have the connections for better seats, but were curious enough to pay through the nose anyway. He'd make some time to glide their way at some point in the show, because he's just that god damn generous. 

And his drag name?

Pudgy Midway. 

It was a homage, a shout out, a love for the fact that despite two weeks of doing ten sit ups every day, he would never possess a six pack in any other form than in aluminum cans. 

Miss Pudge. Miss Midway. Land on her, she's more than capable of taking it hard. 

He had Jared apply makeup to him once. Right when they started hanging out. It was a test, meant to see if Jared would accept realities outside of rural small town America. 

Jared just grumbled that it wasn't fair for people like Jensen to have such clear skin. He chose a deep red shade of lipstick and suggested that Jensen stop using fake eyelashes. He didn't need them. 

The first look Jensen gets of himself behind bars comes from the courtesy of a shiny toilet. 

They tossed him in the bullpen. 

And not that there are many hardened criminals in the bullpen, but Jensen takes advantage of his nausea and throws up into the silver toilet. No one wants to mess with the guy vomiting and dry heaving. He intends to keep it that way. The three guys around him back away, muttering something about how much more unpleasant their stay has been made because of Jensen's vomit. 

Blood and the contents of his stomach look back at him before he flushes. Great. Just great. 

And to greet him after is the warped reflection of his face. He could be a drag queen right now. Two black eyes look a lot like someone shot him with a makeup gun. The red marks from a few punches to his face could be blush. And the blood on his lip accents his swollen lips in a way no lip plumper could ever hope to. Maybe he's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline. 

Fuck. 

He clings to the toilet seat, aware of its unsanitary conditions before he threw up in it. A headache gnaws at his entire head, fixated over his eyes, making it difficult to see. But that might also be his eyes puffing up. Tough to tell. That wrist he thought was fractured or broken before? Hah. The rib he thought was just a little sore? Don't make him laugh. 

Seriously. Don't.

Breathing doesn't just hurt. It's agony. 

When cops really want to rough you up, they find ways to do it in a very short amount of time. He's going to write a very strongly worded letter to someone about their efficient use of nightsticks in the backseat of a squad car. It was almost an art for them to drive and find ways to beat him. 

Jensen doesn't remember much of how he got from the squad car to the station, but he does know that something made them stop shoving and beating him up the steps. 

Maybe it was Socks. 

This seems like a situation Socks could handle. 

Maybe this is the universe punishing him for all the times he whined about cleaning up Socks’ messes indoors. If Jensen peed himself right now, he'd be none the wiser. 

“Minor! Unnecessary! Force!” A voice shouts from a distance, and Jensen catches every other word. He's pretty sure it's none of the other guys in the pen, but he'd also like to tell whoever it is to please quiet down. He's trying to not swallow his tongue here. 

If he can just focus on anything but reality. Sequins. Wigs. He could never wear red wigs. They washed him out. Eyebrow shapes. Never do too high of an arch, then it just screams Bozo. The correct application of nail polish. Only animals leave it at one coat. Or maybe Ilan’s on a cold day. When he’d give them the seat by the window and bring over big mugs of cafe con leche. Jared would take a sip and Jensen would kiss off the foam mustache left behind. Ilan made cafe con leche the old fashioned way: on a slow, low heat over the stove, in a saucepan, stirring the milk and gradually adding in sugar and coffee. 

That one time Jensen commanded Jared to cake on as much foundation onto his face so his freckles would disappear. It took layers. 

Freckles are for five year olds. 

Not grown ass men out in the world. 

“You’ll. Hearing. Me.” 

Nausea taps at Jensen’s stomach, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond. If his body really wants to throw up more, it’ll have to do it on its own. He sure as hell isn’t going to help it along. Sleeping for the next three hundred years seems like a good idea. 

“Stay. Awake.” 

That sounds like two different commands to Jensen. Is he staying? Is he awake? Wait. What? 

“Keep. Open.” 

Okay, now someone’s just getting fresh with him. Not the best time. 

“Move. You.” 

Move? But why? He’s in his bed. With Jared beside him, probably hogging all the covers. That jerk. Jared is such a jerk. The biggest jerk. And probably the only actual friend Jensen has ever had. And probably the one person Jensen can maybe see spending the rest of…

“Uhhhnnn,” someone croaks, like their mouth is full of blood and rocks. Jeez. It sounds like Frankenstein’s monster or some shit. It is definitely not a sound Miss Pudgy Midway would make. How undignified. It’s downright frightening. “Guhhh…” There it is again. 

“Jensen. Stay awake.” 

He  _ is _ awake, god dammit. 

“I’m Preston, your lawyer. We’re getting you out of here, but I need you to stay awake.” 

Oh, okay, sure. Sure, lawyer lady. Not a problem. Why doesn’t he just recite her the Magna Carta while they’re at it? But if she could see her way to making whatever poor soul is making those noises, he’d recite any volume of boring political works on his head. It’s depressing. 

“Shh.” 

Is she shushing him? 

What’s he paying her for? 

Oh, shit.

Those noises are coming out of  _ him _ . 

Can he be embarrassed for those noises in the bullpen? Does he not have bigger fish to fry or is it okay to fixate on being mortified for the moment? 

Lawyer Lady Preston gets Jensen moving, but he can’t entirely physically feel her presence. Someone else has got to be helping her, because he’s sure as fuck not doing his part to move any of his limbs. Jensen thinks that maybe, just maybe, his mouth is moving, but he can’t be sure of that either. And even if his mouth is moving, whatever comes out of it, aside from his ghastly noises, is probably not remotely comprehensible. Is that the correct word to use there, comprehensible? 

Jensen thought he had a face for drag, but the second he put a touch of blush on Jared’s cheekbones, the world stopped. It stopped. Totally. Stopped. 

Holy fuck, does moving hurt. Light hurts. Air hurts. Lawyer Lady Preston’s voice hurts. What’s another good word for hurts? Aches? That’s not strong enough. Why does he care? He dropped out of high school. He’s never gonna need a thesaurus again. 

The back of a car. Hands on him. Lawyer Lady Preston’s voice floats closer to Jensen than any of the others around him. If they’d just let him close his eyes for two seconds, he could muster up the strength to reply and tell everyone to please leave him the fuck alone while he curls up and cries like a baby for the next million years. 

He’s just a teenager.

It hurts to know that.

“Hospital,” Lawyer Lady Preston declares. “Keep him awake.”

Well, fuck that shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i enjoy this version of jensen's character. it's so fun to write. so snarky. so... sad in this chapter. my precious cinnamon roll. 
> 
> an update! yay! please leave comments, they are love. <3


	29. Chapter 29

Jensen wakes up in the hospital with very little idea of who he is, why he's there, and what exactly the machines he's hooked up to do. He also has no sense of direction in his life, but he figures that he started with that long before being placed here on a tiny, uncomfortable hospital bed. 

Facts and events visit him, but they take their sweet time. Oh yeah, he can't drive a motorcycle for shit. Proof of that lies all over his body, mostly in the form of scars and road burn. And remember that time he picked a fight with strangers inside a bar? Or when he got brutally beaten by cops? Yep. Clearly, he lives the average American teenage life. 

And then. 

Remember Jared? 

“Jay.” Jensen blurts this out and instantly figures out why he's not currently singing an opera. Being in the hospital means his throat has gone to shit. Briefly, Jensen wishes his throat was sore from giving Jared the epic blow jobs he deserves. Or from singing operatic masterpieces. But definitely giving blow jobs to Jared first. 

One second nothing hurts and the next second everything hurts. Hooray. 

Blinking his eyes all the way open, Jensen observes his surroundings. He expects a crowd of people hovering over him like a soap opera. But he's not the long lost twin of an oil tycoon with billions to his name and the family business on the line. At least he's got a private room. That's one positive. And, as he gives a quick check with his hand that's free of needles, he doesn't have a catheter in. Win. 

Though how exactly anyone thinks he can get up to pee is beyond him. 

Darkness surrounds him in the tiny single room. The shades are drawn, so those are either really good shades or it's also nighttime. He reads a name off the whiteboard on the wall opposite of his bed. Kerry. That's his nurse. Maybe she has some idea about what's going on. And maybe she can fluff his pillow and give him a shot of tequila. Anything to make the pain in his ribs go away. Or at least make him not care about it. 

Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. Shit, maybe he's on something already. 

Jensen locates the red call button and awaits the arrival of glorious pain medication. 

Should he primp? Make sure his hair looks nice? Make sure his ass isn't somehow showing? He's never been hospitalized before. And he kind of figured his parents would be here when he woke up. It seems like a parent thing to do. But what does he know. 

It's not like he's going to soon find out what it means to be a parent. 

That should be sarcastic, but a deep seated fear raises its hand and wonders: just because Jensen's the biological father doesn't mean Jared wants him to be the second parent. Or involved at all. Jensen did right by Jared and busted him out of that hell hole. Maybe that's all Jared wants now: to be rid of the person who fucked up the trajectory of his life in more ways than one. Maybe Jared doesn't want dead weight poseurs around who can't drive motorcycles or handle responsibility. Jared could be a bad ass single parent. He's tough as nails. So what would be the purpose of keeping Jensen around? Jared already cast off the shackles of his parents and family. He is more than capable of shaking Jensen off next. 

The door opens. Jensen sighs and glances over. A petite woman, in Snoopy scrubs, walks in and heads straight for the mess of machines at Jensen’s bedside. 

“Good to see you awake,” she offers, her voice neither friendly nor unfriendly. “I'm Nadia, your nurse for now.”

“What happened to Kerry?”

“Huh?” Nadia looks over her shoulder at the board and grabs a clipboard from the end of Jensen’s bed. “Oh. That's day staff. I'm overnight. Can you tell me what day and time it is?”

God help him. Help him not be a smart ass to the person in charge of catheters. 

“Uh, nope.” Good. That's a start. “It's not three thousand years into the future, is it?” Dammit. 

Fortunately, Nadia smiles, writing vitals. “No, not today. How do you feel?”

“Sore.”

“Dizzy? Any nausea?”

“If I move, yeah.”

“Pain on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest.”

“Do people ever answer zero?”

“If it was zero, you wouldn't be here.”

“Okay. Uh. Eight.”

“You thirsty?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. I'll get you some juice. I'll see if we can give you a sandwich. You're not scheduled for more pain killers for another half hour. But I can give you something for nausea right now.”

“Sure.”

Simple. Nadia injects something into the IV line and does exactly what she said she'd do. When she comes back with a sandwich, she spears it with a fork. Oh. Right. His wrist. Jensen manages to take a bite and ask for his parents. 

“Your parents are with your lawyer and the police. You were admitted eight hours ago. They were here for a while.”

“Oh.”

“I'll give them a call that you woke up. Anything else?”

Ask about Jared. Do it. The worst she can do is tell him that Jared just stepped out or he's sleeping somewhere more comfortable for the night or he just left Jensen forever. 

“No. I'm good. Thanks.”

Jensen finishes half of his cold turkey sandwich and conks out before Nadia comes back to give him more pain killers. 

This sucks. 

 

A doctor stops by. He spouts some concern about a concussion. Mentions observation. Goes into detail about Jensen's broken wrist, fractured ribs, and bruising. They checked for internal bleeding and found none, but his heartbeat was elevated for a few hours so they're watching it. 

That's it. 

No, “hang in there,” or, “feel better,” or, “we're gonna get you out of here soon.” 

At least Nadia swings around and helps him walk to the bathroom. She holds his dick as if she were doing nothing more than opening a jar of pickles or shredding paper. Jensen coughs on the way back, winded by the three steps from the urinal to the bed, and figures out that coughing really, really hurts. He doubles over, sitting on the edge of the bed, and grips onto Nadia’s hand harder than he'd care to know. Tears shove their way down his red, scrunched face. Exhaustion demolishes any energy he thought he had. The sticky medical tape on his hands irritates his skin. He can't calm down or slow his breathing like Nadia commands. He's in a fucking hospital. Alone. He could be going to jail. Sixteen is old enough to be tried as an adult. His parents are paying who knows how much for this lawyer. And Jared. 

What sucks is that Jensen can't even think about Jared first. 

How fucking selfish. 

Another nurse swoops in and helps Nadia get Jensen back onto the bed, lying down, his feet elevated above his heart. Nadia fans Jensen with her clipboard. The other nurse injects something into his IV line. 

A minute later, Jensen’s eyes threaten to close. God dammit. He wish they would at least warn him about the drugs. 

Nadia turns to the new nurse and grumbles. 

“Fucking cops.”

 

Jensen dreams about Sophia Petrillo. And pancakes. And Socks. And chess. And school. 

Ugh. School. 

Soon enough, his dreams turn into nightmares. Mrs. Padalecki’s face gets up in his, screaming, her teeth gnashing, spit flying everywhere. She screeches on and on about fire and hell and damnation and dead babies floating in purgatory. It's his fault. All his fault. The baby is dead. Jared is dead. But Jensen isn't. He's still alive and able to look at the choices he made, the damage he caused, and the lives he destroyed. 

Jensen wakes up panting. 

He sits up in his hospital bed, presses the call button, and vomits. Up goes the sandwich. The juice. The water. Until he's dry heaving, moaning and screaming in pain, which only makes things worse but his brain doesn't register the command to calm the fuck down. 

Nadia rushes in and presses a second button on the bed. His dark room transforms into a display of lights. His eyes burn from the harsh adjustment and the tears clouding his vision. Two nurses hold him down, which does little to help his anxiety. Pinned down. Kept here. No way out. So he fights them. And struggles. And feels his heart clench, expand, and jolt. 

It all happens like those ridiculous drama shows Jared liked to watch whenever they stayed home from school. Lots of voices shout. Machines blare. Jensen hopes everyone has washed their hands. 

Maybe it doesn't happen the way Jensen feels it, but just like that, it's over. 

Wow. 

If he could, he would say, “Good job, team.”

People clear out. Nadia stays. 

“Allergic reaction to the anxiety med we gave you. Your heart has been through a lot.” Her tone has lost some of its neutrality. But it could be that it's later in her shift and she's tired. “Cardiology tomorrow,” she says, rubbing her forearm. “So don't make any other plans.”

Jensen smiles because it hurts to laugh. He couldn't if he wanted to anyway. Oxygen mask. 

Nadia pulls up a chair to the side of his bed. Her hair, now pulled back in a bun, seems somehow darker under the bright fluorescent lights. Like a totally different shade than before. 

“I have half an hour left on shift.”

That's all she says before she places her hand over Jensen’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i remember, way back when, when my beta T said she would buy me lunch for every update I did to this fic. 
> 
> hmmmmmmmm. XD
> 
> here we are, a year later, and this fic is somehow still going. these boys. sigh. comments though, are love!


	30. Chapter 30

Of all things to float through Jensen’s mind in the cardiology ward, Bible verses decide to stick. He tries to shoo them off with Marilyn Manson songs, thoughts of streaking through a packed church on a Sunday morning, or by paying attention to the throbs of pain in his chest. Nothing works. 

The cardiologist talks to the nurse in the room about her recent vacation to Rome. 

Jensen attempts to focus on her stories of being pickpocketed outside of the colosseum or how pasta in Italy is more like a religious experience or how her boyfriend refused to let her buy more than a few handbags. There are so many sarcastic remarks Jensen could--and normally would--make, it adds to the ache in his chest. That also might be the constant struggle to breathe. 

Everyone in the hospital seems to have stopped by just to tell Jensen to keep breathing. The person who brought him a liquid diet breakfast told him to breathe. The nurse who took over for Nadia told him to breathe. The doctor on call this morning told him to breathe. The staff from housekeeping who took away his soiled sheets and gave him an extra pillow told him to breathe. The bird that landed outside on his window ledge told him to stop being a weak ass motherfucker and breathe.

If he doesn’t breathe, he gets a ticket to pneumonia. No tradesies.  

Pain and Bible verses scramble up the natural rhythm of his breathing. Muscles he didn’t even know he used to breathe complain in creative methods, including ramping up his nausea. 

All he has to do is lie here and let the cardiologist and her helpers test the old ticker. 

_ Mightier than the waves of the sea is His love for you _ . Not helping.  _ For I know the plans I have for you. _ Please.  _ I will never leave you or forsake you. _ Can’t they hurry this shit up?  _ Be strong. Be brave. Be fearless. You are never alone _ . Of course he’s not alone. There are two people in the room with him, with free access to his entire body, who don’t particularly care or need to know why he’s here. They just need to do their tests, sign off on his chart, and send him back to his room where he’ll be someone else’s problem. And from there, in his small private room, he’ll struggle to breathe even more, because it’s just so goddamn difficult to draw in a complete breath and let it go without feeling like his chest is collapsing. And that bird will probably be back to mock him.

“Breathe.” A new voice issues the command. Jensen blinks awake, confused about his surroundings yet again. 

He must have fallen asleep serving his time in cardiology. 

“Were you having a nightmare?” 

“Nah,” Jensen grumbles, checking to make sure to his cock isn’t hanging out of his gown. “Not… like… I’ve been through… anything traumatic… lately.” 

Lawyer lady Preston sits next to his bedside, in the same chair Nadia occupied, not at all for the same reason.

She looks refreshed, like the past few days are what she lives for. Or maybe she’s just very carefully put together. Jensen notices her pressed suit and styled hair. Maybe they teach lawyers how to transform from dead tired to runway ready in zero to sixty. Maybe there’s a phone booth nearby she just stepped into for a moment. 

“That’s good,” Preston murmurs and checks her phone. “Keep that sense of humor up. You’re gonna need it.”

“Will do. Thanks.” 

Sitting straight, shoulders back, Preston looks directly at Jensen. Her voice sounds well-practiced in the art of speaking to dumb ass people. “I don’t think I need to tell you that you are lucky to be alive--with minimal damage done to your body.”

“This… is minimal?” 

Her dark suit stands out against all the beige and white of his room. “All of your injuries will heal with time and physical therapy. That’s more than most people get to walk away with after the police fuck them up.” 

Oh.

Two minutes of silence allows the fact to sink in. 

“Now we’re on the same page,” Preston states. “I got your permanent records last night. You’re a smart kid. Good to know it translates from paper to person.”

Jensen shrugs. He stares at the IV in his hand. “Sure.” He won’t argue her points. She’s right and he knows it. Part of his privilege is the hospital bed he has a chance to occupy, instead of a table in a morgue. Plus, his parents have the means and connections to pay for Preston’s time, advice, and consult. She gets to represent a living person, not sue in the memory of. 

The thoughts in Jensen’s mind quiet down. He listens to Preston for the next twenty minutes. She outlines the major players in his case and the direction she’s going with it. It isn’t enough to sue the officers who arrested him; she’s going to sue the municipality and the Padaleckis. Preston graduated top of her class, after saving every dollar and getting every scholarship. She was told a black woman had no place in the system. Now she makes the system pay up and pay attention. 

This could be a media circus; this case has all the makings of one. Police brutality? In a small town? Against a white, underage, gay minor? And his boyfriend’s religious parents bribed the cops who took the money and carried it out? This could be big. 

But it won’t be. 

Those are not the kinds of cases Preston works. Media coverage won’t help; the threat of it will. She walks Jensen through the basics of his case, which is legally more his parents’ case. The police department has already tried waving the fire at the convent in her face. But all they could cough up was a bunch of circumstantial evidence and bullshit. This morning, when Preston filed the official suit, a bargain appeared at the last minute: they would drop the felony charges if she dropped the suit. 

“They’ll fold under pressure.” Preston folds her hands over her lap. “Anything to get it from getting in front of a jury. It won’t be overnight, but they’ll settle out of court, probably offer you a few thousand and expect you to stay quiet. But I’m here to tell you not to accept the first offer in exchange for the threat to your life and the violation of your civil rights.”

Breathe, Jensen tells himself. 

Details pile on top of details. Maybe it’s the concussion, or his fractured ribs, or the faint, phantom feeling of police batons slamming down onto his body, but exhaustion overtakes him once again. Preston presses the call button for him and a nurse steps into the room not a minute later to check on Jensen. 

Preston stands at Jensen’s bedside, holding her briefcase. 

“Focus on getting better. That’s your job now.” 

She leaves her business card on his meal tray. The nurse brings him a cup of cherry jello, feeds it to him, and he doesn’t utter a single complaint about it or the help he requires to get up and go to the bathroom. He manages to drink from a straw and not cough for an eternity. Then he falls asleep, his mind unusually silent.

 

Nadia forces his ass out of bed seconds within beginning her shift.

“Walking will help you breathe,” she claims. “Unless you want to get pneumonia and stay here longer. The food here is good, but it’s not  _ that _ good.” 

Jensen snaps back that he wouldn’t know anything about the actual food served at the hospital; no one has given him solids since throwing up right after Preston left. At least he held onto his barf until then. Someone gave him more of that anti-nausea stuff, which he tasted in his mouth even though it was injected into his IV. Of course, that stuff made him drowsy, so he ended up sleeping the entire afternoon and evening. 

Moving requires time and effort. He tries to get to his feet without Nadia’s help and fails, spectacularly. 

“What if,” Nadia questions, “you accepted my help the first time and saved us all the trouble?” 

“Earn… your… paycheck,” Jensen coughs. He braces himself over Nadia’s forearm with his right hand, cast firm against her, and his IV pole with the other. After two more attempts, Jensen’s ass gradually rises from the edge of the bed. Never before has he felt such joy in relation to getting out of bed. 

By the time his slippered feet shuffle over to the doorway, Nadia’s watch announces the strike of midnight. 

Technically, his walk takes place in the morning. Step by step, he fights for every inhale and exhale. Pressure rolls around in his chest. The oxygen line shoved against his nose makes for a fashionable yet irritating accessory. The squeaks from the IV pole echo through the empty hallway outside of his room. Nadia proposes a quick walk around the nurse’s station; Jensen wonders what quick looks like in her mind. Halfway around the route, Jensen swears a plastic fork lodges itself into his torso. Nadia assures him that no one is missing any cutlery. He’s fine.

But that’s just it.

He’s not  _ fine _ .

He leans heavily on Nadia and the IV pole, panting, struggling to to maintain control over his breathing. Busted ribs doesn’t sound like such a huge deal. 

What if he contracts an infection because of his lack of breathing? What if he stops breathing tonight? Or any time he closes his eyes? What if he has internal bleeding and one of the doctors missed the signs for it? What if he spends another day alone in his room, and over time, the people who should visit move on with their lives? What if, by then, Jensen is still in his hospital room, still a kid pretending to be an adult, and even the staff want nothing to do with him? What if they stop responding to his calls for help? 

What if he never sees Jared again?

Nadia pats his shoulder. “Take it easy. Take a break.” 

If only Jensen hadn’t built everything up, only to tear it all down. 

“Wait here.” Nadia steadies Jensen on his feet. “I’ll be right back.” 

Within a minute, Nadia returns from the other end of the beige hallway. She stands there and motions Jensen forward, as if to meet her. He shakes his head, but she holds her hand up. With her other hand, she motions down the next, dimly lit hallway--come forward. 

Jared rounds the corner, leaning on his own IV pole. 

It seems to take an eternity for their feet to move towards each other. It must be as long as Tammy Wynette can hold a note. Somewhere in the middle of the hall, Jared lets go of his IV pole and holds onto Jensen. Their bodies shake against each other. Technically, it’s morning, so the verse that slips into Jensen’s head doesn’t irritate him as much. 

Arms wrapped around Jared, he thinks, “Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /cries/
> 
> comments are love! i'm really worried about how this chapter came out. please let me know your thoughts. <3


	31. Chapter 31

“I have always wanted to leave. 

When I was a kid, I was restless. I read everything. I hid all of my books. All of my dreams were about anywhere but here. Anything but this life. 

The people around me always said how proud of me they were. I got the best grades. Smiled when I had to. I knew. I couldn't stay. 

I wanted to climb. 

I had to work a lot harder so I could get a lot farther. 

It wasn’t always bad. Maybe that made it worse. I thought they loved me. Then I thought, maybe  _ I _ was wrong. Maybe it was me. Maybe I couldn't be anyone but just like them. Maybe I was fighting the wrong fight. Maybe my world would always be the same. 

I fought for myself. 

And against myself. 

Everyone told me how I was going to grow up to be something great. I smiled. Stood up straight. Said hi to the neighbors. Everything was fine. I prayed. Lived when I could. Came up for air where I could get it. 

How could I tell my parents? How could I ask them to understand? When could I be honest?

I kept praying. 

I knew I was letting them down. 

But what do you do when you know. You just know you're better than this. You don't believe in the core of what they taught you. You don't want it. Every day feels more and more like the end. How do you find peace when the world is ending? When you have so much energy and no outlet other than grades and using clueless older men who passed through this place? 

I knew. I had to take a stand.

My eyes were on the horizon. I couldn't leave all at once. I knew better. 

I'm smart. 

The only chance I had was to rise up. 

I read everything. Anything I could get my hands on. Told the teachers I trusted. Asked all my questions. Considered every possibility. Researched. Dug deeper. Clawed my way through the library. The bookstore. The internet. I saved every dollar. I woke up, got up, showed up day after day. It was  _ me _ . All alone. Abandoning was not an option. I couldn’t afford a single slip. I was gonna get out. I was gonna be the first. I wasn't gonna be outsmarted. 

The world was gonna know my name. 

I walked through every day dreaming. Focus. What more could I do? Write. Rally my thoughts together. Organize. Never let my guard down. Never let anyone too close. Too near. Any hope of success I had, I held onto. If I could just make it through. If I could use what I was granted, what I was given to work with. I couldn't afford one slip. Every word. Every facial expression. Every lie. I planned it all. 

…

I just never planned… you. 

Or her. 

…

I had a blood transfusion. They put me on suicide watch. Your parents came to see me. They said they saw you too, but you were out cold. Your mom. She held my hand during the ultrasound t-they did yesterday. 

You know. 

I have faith. 

But--it's different now. It was always there, now it's free. I can feel it. I can say it. 

I have faith in you, Jensen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, but to the point. 
> 
> heavily inspired by Hamilton's "Right Hand Man" and In the Heights' "Breathe." both wonderful plays and songs that have kept me afloat this week. i have been struggling. i want to fight. i want to push back. this country let me down. while i gather my resources, gather my strength, i'll keep writing. i hope you are all staying safe. i encourage you to reach out, speak out, donate, protest, rise up. change is possible. 
> 
> anyway. thank you for reading. comments are love. <3


	32. Chapter 32

Donna makes a big deal out of Jensen the first time she sees him awake in his room in the morning.  

She hugs him so tight his IV threatens to pop out of his hand. Not that she cares. She keeps hugging. Squeezing. Compressing. 

Despite her attempt at playing it cool right after her imitation of a boa constrictor, Jensen can tell that the past few days have been a strain on her. He tries to apologize for the inconvenience--financial, emotional, physical--and she refuses to listen. Her only reply is something along the lines of, “It's about damn time I get ‘inconvenienced’ by my son. I haven't… I know we haven't always been there.”

This doesn't mean she wants him committing felonies every other week. But, in this case, she can let this one slide. 

Alan visits an hour later, fresh from visiting Jared in his room. Donna hugs Jensen again and leaves, Jared's room her next destination. They've been trying their best to swap out and spend time with both of them, whenever the staff would allow and in between bouts of consciousness. Jensen’s concussion and allergic reaction have knocked him out and no one was about to disturb his rest. 

It is nice to see his parents while he's conscious. 

A daytime nurse comes in and offers to help Jensen to the bathroom. Jensen is certain that this very opportunity must be the highlight of her day. 

“I can help,” Alan volunteers. “I did used to change his diapers.”

“Good memories,” Jensen quips, gently easing himself towards the edge of the bed.

“You remember. Couldn't have been more than a year ago since you graduated to toilet master.”

The nurse cackles and Jensen shoots Alan a glare. Sure, nurses have seen him completely naked and have had to help him with the most basic of functions, but that doesn't mean he needs to be embarrassed in front of them, especially by dad jokes. In the bathroom, he attempts to pee on Alan's shoes, but a twinge in his ribs stalls his ability to twist in that direction. 

Walking hurts. 

Breathing during and after walking hurts. 

He can't even utter a reply to Alan's joke about looking more like an old man in a retirement home than a teenager in a hospital. It isn't fair. He. Can't. Breathe. 

Of course, Alan takes advantage of Jensen's inability to breathe and lays down a portion of what's going on in the outside world. Preston seems to be kicking ass and taking names. She's good friends with the governor, and by friends, Alan means she has information at her disposal should the governor unwisely decide to side with the sheriff and police department. The charges against Jensen from the convent have been dropped, since a certain lawyer tipped off the right people and exposed child abuse, negligence, psychological torture, and brainwashing. The convent has been a dirty little secret for decades, hiding behind walls of iron and roses. 

Alan starts to apologize. Not just for the current circumstances, but for pretty much everything. 

“You know how you can make it up to me?” Jensen interrupts. He can't handle more emotions right now. His head hurts. His ribs hurt. His parents don't need to apologize to him. At least, not all at once. 

“No, you're not driving my car.”

“I'm an excellent driver!”

“Not according to Jared.”

“So you’re gonna take his word for it, huh?”

“Seems like it.” 

“Fine,” Jensen sighs and rolls his eyes. “Figures you’d end up liking him more than me.”

“You’ll manage,” Alan replies, his voice a little softer, a little quieter. He pats Jensen’s hand, mindful of the IV, and sits back in the visitor’s chair. “They’re looking at discharging the two of you tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

“Do I get to see Jared before then?”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible. But you both need to rest.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I’m out of here.”

“You think that.” Alan laughs, but he’s almost sad about it. “Just you wait.” 

Jensen doesn’t like the sound of that. But he’s not about to argue. Pain drags him down, hooked into the base of his skull and spiraling down. He’ll have small windows of energy, then they slam shut on him. He tries to bash the windows open or look for other ways out, but ultimately, he gives into his body’s demands for sleep. 

It helps that this time, Alan holds his hand. 

 

Patients are not released from hospitals without several people reviewing each patient’s records and plan for care. Different people need to review and verify documents, then sign off and pass those documents onto their colleague or superior. 

Preston doesn't help speed up the process. She requires both Jared and Jensen to be discharged at night, to prevent any members of the press from spotting them. Jensen wonders exactly how bored these supposed members of the press have to be to hang around this town, at this hospital. Over the phone, Preston reminds Jensen that she holds the expensive law degree, not him, and he can be a smart ass all he wants once he's home. She has a point. Jensen doesn't have thousands of dollars worth of student loans. He doesn't say that though. Preston could kill him over the phone without breaking a sweat. 

And she's proven to be a professional worth fearing. Earlier that afternoon, Alan reported that she made the police commissioner cry. 

Not just shed a tear. 

Reliable sources said he blubbered. 

Jensen keeps the story in the back of his mind as Donna fusses over getting him ready to leave. A nurse stops by and takes his IV out, revealing a deep bruise where it had been nestled. Jensen tries not to look at it. But he can't focus on anything else. Donna’s pacing and questions for the nurse exhaust him. His tray of juice and cookies sits too far for him to reach without adding more pain. The room started to feel small and confined approximately a hundred years ago. And everyone who pops in is not the person he wants to see with every fiber of his being. 

It's true, he has no idea what happens next, after their stint in the hospital. 

But they managed to scam hundreds of dollars off their classmates after school. They're smarter than they look. Jared is, at least. 

“I switched to an earlier shift just for you,” Nadia announces, leaning against the doorway. She waves to Donna and looks at Jensen. “Maybe you can stop moping for a second to say thanks.”

“That's my secret. I'm always moping.”

“Whatever, Bruce Banner.”

“An earlier shift means you leave earlier anyway.” Jensen lets her take his vitals one last time. He's not sure she technically has to, but he doesn't turn it down. The strap of the blood pressure cuff. The cold press of the stethoscope against his chest and back. The calming touch of her hands against his shoulders.

She helps him into the wheelchair that’s been waiting for him since someone started discharge paperwork.

“Discharge,” Jensen grumbles, wincing in pain as he eases down from the bed to the wheelchair. “Sounds so gross.” 

The woman who has been helping him perform many, if not all, of his bodily functions lately smiles and shakes her head. “To a nurse, discharge is the most beautiful word there is.” 

“Won’t you miss me?” 

“Ehh, maybe a little.”

“So then what’s so great about it?”

Nadia takes the brakes off the wheelchair and asks Donna if they’ve got everything. Jensen’s clear and ready to go. The paperwork has been signed and approved, a folder of discharge instructions has been delivered to Donna. No heavy lifting. Restricted activity. Breathing exercises. Physical therapy. Plenty of ice. Prescription painkillers only if he needs them. All for six glorious weeks. 

Inch by inch, the wheelchair approaches the door to freedom. Nadia pushes and Donna carries the few things Jensen had in his room worth taking. She brought him a pair of black sweatpants and a baggy gray Cowboys shirt to wear on the trip home. Somehow, she also convinced--forced--him to wear two pairs of socks in order to leave the hospital, as if he might somehow succumb to exposure from cold feet. 

Two hallways blur past. The floors are so damn shiny, Jensen avoids looking down. Makes him dizzy. 

Around them, the hospital hums. Machines beep and people speak in hushed voices. Anxious footsteps mix with tired footsteps. Generic pictures of gardens and fountains grace the walls in an effort to detract from the harsh fluorescent lighting and glossy floors. 

“Discharge means you’re well enough to go home.” Nadia stops the wheelchair in front of a long, deserted hallway. It looks like this department closed for the day. “That means we did our job right.”

Jensen looks up and spots a sign indicating the department. 

Ultrasound.

“So,” Nadia says and extends her hand. “You ready to do your job right?” 

Pain makes itself known inside his body--in his ribs, torso, and back--searing and literally breathtaking. To spite it, Jensen works against it. He grips Nadia’s hand with his good hand and pushes himself out of the wheelchair. Yes, he’s wearing two pairs of socks and no shoes. Yes, he’s moving slower than some people four times his age. Yes, his bones, lungs, and muscles loudly complain. 

None of that stops him. 

 

Their eyes meet.

Jensen wants to offer Jared a Jarrito and a side of fried yucca. He wants to see that nose scrunch and press their foreheads together and inhale the scent of strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap. He wants to go back to their bus stop, standing on the corner with their arms wrapped around each other, when their problems were as small as some nausea and cutting school. It’d be nice if they could work their way back through time. 

He wants to scoop Jared up and hug him and tell him that he’s never letting go--and he means it. He ain’t no Rose hogging up the whole door when there’s clearly room for them both. He wants to change the scenery, the backdrop, the hospital bed Jared occupies, their beige surroundings, the machine nearby.

He wants to reminisce about that time on the monkey bars, those times at Ilan’s, or every single trip they made to the edge of town and asked philosophical questions about life in between make out sessions. 

And then, Jensen sees her.

Right there--on a blurry, black and white screen. He sees the outline of her head, the curve of her arms, and the position of her arms and legs. 

The technician says something. Nadia and Donna say something. Jensen stumbles forward and holds himself steady against the guardrail on the bed. Breathing hard, he looks from the slick portion of Jared’s stomach to incredibly vulnerable hazel eyes. 

This is it. 

There is no going back. 

A few weeks ago, an adult handed him his driver’s license. Now, another adult hands him the ultrasound wand. Jared lifts his powder blue sweater up another inch to provide a wordless invitation. With the greatest care, Jensen presses the wand against Jared’s middle. The wand captures images that show up on the screen. Jared holds his breath and the image seems clearer. 

Jared exhales and places his hand over Jensen’s. They move the wand together. 

“Look,” Jared murmurs, dimples briefly flashing. “It’s a womb with a view.” 

Grateful, Jensen returns the smile and nods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about to fall asleep. -_- 
> 
> enjoy! comments are very much love and appreciated. <3


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the *last* chapter of this fic. <3

 

A lot can change in six weeks. 

But certainly not Jensen’s sarcasm.

Somewhere during week three, he gets  _ this _ close to pneumonia and the doctor who makes a house call practically straps Jensen down to his bed. And not in a kinky fun way, either. The worst thing about being sick turns out to be the lack of time he can spend with Jared. Jensen wouldn’t mind infecting his parents with his germs and disease since they forced him to study for his GED while he was on bedrest. They even had the nerve to taunt him about it. Did you take your practice test today, Jensen? Were you too busy running miles around the block or doing cartwheels with Socks? 

To spite them, he slept for most of week three and four.

Once the threat of pneumonia left, Jared moved back into Jensen’s room from the tiny guest room across the hall. He had his own health issues to deal with, like morning sickness that really wasn’t just morning sickness. Nausea would strike indiscriminately--morning, day, and night. They’d be lying in bed, legs tangled, listening to the radio, and Jared would get up. If anyone could go through morning sickness with an almost elegant approach, it was Jared. He’d climb back into bed smelling like mouthwash and Dial soap and gross Jensen out by describing the feeling of throwing up for the fourth time in a day. 

Week five almost felt normal.

Donna and Alan alternated spending time at home in between working on their project in Los Angeles. They were around to make meals, drive Jared to the hospital for check ups, and attempt to help Jensen out with physical therapy exercises. Alan always gave up first, due to Jensen’s swearing, but Donna, bless her, held out until the bitter end of each forty-five minute session. Something about spending ten hours in labor with him allowed her to steel up. 

A few things felt different. And some things didn’t feel different at all. 

When they could, Jared and Jensen curled up on the living room couch to drink Jarritos and watch horror movies. Jensen sat on the porch while Jared made excuses for Socks’ inability to properly play fetch. Socks never let go of the item being fetched--frisbees, squeaky toys, Jensen’s socks--but insisted that Jared throw them. No take. Only throw. 

Ilan brought them Cuban sandwiches with extra cheese and extra pickles once a week, on Fridays. He always included a side of yucca, plus two bowls of black beans and rice.

At the end of week six, even their conversations seem the same.

“What if I join the FBI,” Jensen murmurs into Jared’s shoulder. 

Sunday. It’s Sunday and Donna’s making pancakes like some kind of Good Housekeeping subscriber. She’ll be leaving in a few minutes to pick up Alan from the airport. Tomorrow, they’ll make the switch and it will be Alan driving Donna to the airport. 

Jensen settles into the couch. Socks pops an eye open at the movement, regarding Jensen with suspicion. No one gets more Socks time than Jared. Socks has become his shadow. Jensen makes a face at Socks. 

“You wouldn’t last two days,” Jared replies, petting Socks on the head. “Someone would shoot you for mouthing off.”

“What if I become a traveling salesman and try selling shower ring curtains?” 

“I’ve seen that movie.”

“You lie.”

“You were with me when we saw it.”

“I think I blew you when we did.”

“I was still watching.”

“Burn, Jared, burn. You’ve wounded my pride.”

“Yes, but will it shut you up?”

“Nah.”

“Uh huh.”

“You know what my favorite numbers are?” 

“Hmm, what are your favorite numbers?”

“Six.”

“And?”

“Guess.”

“Zero.”

“Zero is not a number.”

“You’re about to become very familiar with it.”

“With a face like this?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re so mean to me. Socks put you up to it.”

“We’re too cute to talk to you.”

“Man, I told you he’s bad news. You haven’t been the same since you started hanging out with him.”

“Are you talking to me or Socks?”

“Yes.”

Jared swats at Jensen’s hair and shifts around on the couch. He lies on his back, legs over Jensen’s lap, Socks curled up in the crook of his left arm. Jensen sits up and takes a deep breath. 

A lot changes in six weeks. Like his ability to breathe without doubling over in excruciating pain. Or one of his parents present at night to turn out the lights in the hallways and wish them good dreams. Or the Scrambler arriving at their doorstep looking brand new and brilliant in the afternoon sun. Or Alan’s leather jacket returning from Los Angeles, where one of his friends did him a favor and had it cleaned and patched up. Or the two letters the mail man delivers to the front door instead of placing them in the box. 

Jensen receives a GED. 

The court, with a little nudge from a familiar legal resource, grants Jared complete emancipation. 

Six weeks marks a total of twenty-two weeks. Jared doesn’t fit into any of the clothes Jensen gave him or Donna bought him at the beginning of those six weeks. He refuses to slide into wearing sweatpants all the time, which is more discipline than Jensen could ever have. Donna brought home bags of clothes from Los Angeles, along with a borrowed sewing machine. She spent an entire night with Jared to figure out where and how to let out different pairs of jeans and shirts. Jensen stayed up with them, watching Jared dress and undress, observing every change to his body. 

Baggy sweaters can still kind of, sort of make Jared’s waistline seem smaller. But since summer approaches, he has no choice but to abandon the sweaters whenever they step outside of the protection of air conditioning. 

Yesterday, they Googled, “twenty-two weeks pregnant.” One of the most informative facts was that she’s  not much bigger than a spaghetti squash. Stretch marks have begun to make an appearance on Jared’s sides. His hair looks and feels glossier. And unlike Jensen, his face remains pimple-free. 

The Price is Right comes on. It’s a Bob Barker episode, thank god. 

Socks leaves in a blur of fluff and skitters to the patio sliding doors. He presses his nose against the glass and growls at what is probably a menacing squirrel or blade of grass. 

An announcement on the bottom of the television screen alerts them that an episode of The Golden Girls is up next. Jared can dust off his Rose Nyland impression. And Jensen can loudly sing the theme song and obnoxiously quote every single line with one hundred perfect accuracy. 

Life is almost normal.

These moments are little pieces of normal.

Like the gel pen Jared slips out from the sleeve of his sweater. He twirls it in his hands and pays more attention to it than Bob Barker explaining the rules for the hopeful newcomers already lined up. Jensen watches the gel pel tap against Jared’s fingers, wrists, and chin. The world becomes the click of the pen cap separating from the pen. 

Without a word, Jared takes Jensen’s left hand. He smooths his thumb over the top of Jensen’s hand, brushing over knuckles, testing the terrain. Jensen’s eyes dart back and forth between Jared’s somber expression to the tip of the gel pen touching his skin. 

Jared draws a heart on his wrist.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment, then the gel pen starts to glide over Jensen’s forearm.

Jensen reads the finished product. 

A lot changes in twenty-two weeks. 

And more will change in the eighteen weeks that are left. The space on Jensen’s forearm, however, will always be there. Jared’s handwriting is neat by nature, and still neat in gel pen on skin. 

_ You are every hope I’ve ever had in human form _ . 

This is where they start again, piece by piece. 

Later, they can slide into Jensen’s room and figure it out.

They tune back into The Price is Right for a few minutes before Donna calls them over for breakfast. Jensen asks to have breakfast on the couch. Donna brings over their plates and sets down a jug of syrup on the coffee table. She lingers for a minute, pretending to lecture Jensen about washing the dishes while she makes herself look busy rearranging books and a vase of flowers. For all of her work in the business, she can’t pass for beans as a nonchalant mom. 

Just before she leaves for the airport, she runs a hand through Jared’s hair and gives Jensen a pat on the cheek. She still won’t let Jensen drive her Mercedes, but this seems to be a nice compromise. 

Alone, they finish breakfast and Jared wins Plinko. 

Socks begs Jared to take him outside, not to pee, but to bark at squirrels in the neighbors’ trees. Most of the squirrels in the neighborhood have at least two or three pounds on Socks; this doesn’t stop him from being as threatening as possible. Every so often, he looks around, searching for Jared. Spoiled dog. Jensen complains that he doesn’t get nearly as many kisses from Jared as Socks does, and Jensen doesn’t lick his asshole like Socks does. 

“I don’t know that for sure,” Jared quips, looping their arms together. He tugs Jensen and subtly coaxes him to walk around the backyard. Walking doesn’t cause him excruciating pain anymore, but he definitely can’t move faster than Socks. 

“You know,” Jensen asks, his steps matching Jared’s, “I seem to recall licking yours.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“I’m not being crude. I’m being honest.”

Nose scrunch. “Be a little less honest.”

“You’ll regret saying that, one day.”

“It’s good to know your mouth wasn’t injured.”

“Yeah, what a tragedy that would be. Think of all the orgasms the world would never have.”

“Would you still wanna live in Vegas?”

“Only if I could be Fat Elvis.”

“You’d have to dye your hair.”

“That’s a dealbreaker.”

“Yep.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I dyed my hair?”

“Not particularly.”

“You know, I was super blond when I was a kid.”

“I know. Your mom showed me pictures.”

“Ugh. Donna. Why.”

“What about Utah?” 

“Nope. Mormons.”

“Oh yeah, they’d  _ love _ you.”

“I respect their decision to be assholes, I just don’t want to see them.”

“But you’ll lick them?”

“Now who’s being crude?”

“I’m just being honest. Minnesota.”

“And deal with all that snow?”

“You’re awfully picky.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what about… uh… Florida?”

“That’s a cesspool, Jensen.”

“Damn, you’re right.”

“Wisconsin?”

“Cold cesspool,” Jensen sighs. “...here?” 

Jared stops them and looks down at their arms, then at his middle. He shakes his head. “I can’t, Jen. I can’t stay here. There’s too much.”

This time, Jensen prompts them to walk. Socks darts back and forth around them, then bounds off towards the patio door, eager to be let back in so he can resume doing nothing. Jensen slips his hand into Jared’s. They should try out for The Price is Right and win some cash. It might not be as fun without Bob Barker, but Plinko hasn’t changed. 

He opens the patio door for Socks and Jared, who immediately head for the bathroom; Jared because needs must and Socks because he has to make sure Jared is absolutely safe in the bathroom.

Jensen stays in the kitchen. He looks around. Donna can’t cook without using at least forty pots and pans. She probably did it on purpose, to put Jensen to work. He goes through the motions, assesses the damage, turns on the faucet, and grabs the sponge. Life is more than who we are. Where did he hear that? Is it another damn Bible quote? No. Damn. It’s going to bother him. 

Two plates left, Jared surprises him with a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Socks still gets more kisses than that, but Jensen doesn’t complain. 

They slide into Jensen’s room. Jared doesn’t complain about his prune fingers or the smell of pancake mush and dish soap. Their eyes meet for a second before they kiss. After that, it’s all like a familiar song on the radio that they play on repeat, as loud as ever.

The scar on Jared’s arm healed clean. Most of Jensen’s scrapes and bruises have disappeared. 

Jared invites Socks onto the bed despite Jensen’s initial protests. Socks plops himself between them, heaving a sigh, like he’s damn sick of having to take care of these humans. He licks Jared’s chin and his tail smacks Jensen in the face. Two minutes later, Jensen banishes Socks to curl up on Jared’s feet.

“I got an offer,” Jared murmurs, reaching over and petting Jensen behind the ear just like he does for Socks. “A full ride from a community college in Washington state.” 

“...is it a cesspool?”

“Nope.”

“Can we get Jarritos there?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Sounds good to me.”

For the rest of the day, they lie in bed, chest to back, their hands clasped over her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god. folks, this is it. 
> 
> wow.
> 
> let me just say, this fic turned into so much more than i ever thought possible. i intended this to be 5-10k words as a thank you for mcdanno28 buying me lunch. but here we are, a little over a year later. these boys have carved themselves a space in my heart, and i hope yours too. <3
> 
> there's a sequel! just give me some time. definitely not the end of these two. endings are hard, but i hope you enjoy this last chapter. thanks to you all for reading, thanks to my lovely betas, and thanks to the Goo Goo Dolls. the snippet of poem in this chapter is from Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur. 
> 
> comments are love! <3

**Author's Note:**

> this is a WIP! i'll be posting gradually, and staying at least one chapter ahead, but hang on for the ride. :D
> 
> comments are love! <3


End file.
